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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


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Cr±, 


On  the  Border 


EDMUND    KIRKE, 


AUTHOR   or   "  AMONG   THE   PINES,"   "  LIFE   OP  JESUS,"    "  PATRIOT  BOYS   AND   PRISON 
PICTURES,"   ETC. 


BOSTON: 
LEE       AND       SHEPARD 

186  7. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 

LEE    &    SHEPARD, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAinjRIDGE:    STrREOTrPED   BY   JOHN    STOXE. 


BOSTON:    PRIN'TED    BY    GEORGE    C.    RAND    &    AVERY. 


W  I  L  T.  I  A  M    LEE, 


€;  b  i  s  y  0  I  u  in  £ 


IS  AFFECTIONATELT  DEDICATED. 


THE    AUTHOR 


(HI) 


602922 


PREFACE. 


The  facts  which  form  the  groundwork  of  the  follow- 
ing story  were  communicated  to  the  writer  during  a 
visit  which  he  made  to  the  "  Army  of  the  Cumberland  " 
in  the  spring  of  1863.  Their  romantic  interest  at  once 
fascinated  his  imagination,  and  he  readily  listened  to 
the  suggestion,  which  was  then  made  him,  to  write  the 
history  of  Garfield's  campaign  in  Eastern  Kentucky. 
In  pursuance  of  this  purpose  he  opened  a  correspond- 
ence with  the  principal  actors  in  that  "  eventful  his- 
tory," and  within  the  following  eighteen  months  accu- 
mulated a  mass  of  material  that  would,  of  itself,  make 
a  respectable  volume.  A  careful  examination  of  this 
material,  however,  showed  him  that  many  of  the  state- 
ments of  his  correspondents  were  so  inconsistent  and 
so  contradictory,  that  no  reliable  history  could  be  com- 
piled from  it  without  an  amount  of  sifting  and  re- 
search which  he  had  not  the  time  to  make.  In  these 
circumstances,  he  decided  not  to  write  a  history,  but  a 
story,  that  should  embrace,  and  be  founded  on,  the 
acknowledged  facts  of  the  campaign. 

(V) 


VI  r  R  E  F  A  C  E  . 

In  following  out  this  plan  he  has  endeavored  to  relate 
events  as  accurately  as  possible.  Whenever  he  speaks 
of  known  and  living  men  he  writes  authentic  history, 
and  only  in  describing  subordinate  characters  and 
circumstances  does  he  give  any  play  to  his  imagina- 
tion. The  events  related  of  Jordan  are  mainly  facts ; 
but  are  not  all  facts  true  of  him.  This  one  man, 
as  he  appears  in  the  story,  is  a  combination  of  two 
men,  —  one  of  them  named  John  Jordan,  the  other, 
Joseph  Sowards.  The  adventurous  ride,  and  the  mid- 
night visit  to  Marshall's  camp  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 
of  Middle  Creek,  are  true  of  Jordan  ;  the  killing  of 
Cecil,  the  double  outlawry,  and  the  unparalleled  patri- 
otism which  made  him,  while  under  sentence  of  death 
from  both  his  friends  and  his  enemies,  do  such  great 
services  to  his  country,  are  true  of  Sowards. 

In  a  pretty  wide  reading  the  writer  has  met  with  no 
such  character,  and  the  proverbial  ingratitude  of  re- 
publics only  can  account  for  the  fact  that  this  brave 
man  and  pure  patriot  went  to  his  grave  unknown  and 
unwept  save  among  his  native  mountains. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAQK 
AXCESTRY, 11 

CHAPTER  11. 
The  Shadows  of  Comikg  Events, 24 

CHAPTER  III. 

After  Twenty  Years, 52 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Funeral, 75 

CHAPTER  y. 
Rachel's  Marriage 95 

CHAPTER  YI. 
A  Winter  Night, 108 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Christmas  in  February, 124 

(VII) 


VIII  CONTEXTS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  Tragedy, 141 

CHAPTER  IX. 
"  The  Begixxixg  OF  THE  End," 155 

CHAPTER  X. 
The  Husbaxd  axd  Wife  Together,    ...;..     167 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  Midnight  Ride, 187 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  March  AND  A  Battle, 197 

CHAPTER  XIIL 
Results, 205 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
The  Removal, 210 

CHAPTER  XY. 
A  Trial  and  a  Temptation, 216 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  Xew  Actor  on  the  Scene, 222 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Communications  Opened, 231 

CHAPTER  XYIII. 
A  !March  in  Mid-Winter, 243 


C  O  N  T  K  N  T  S  .  IX 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  Battle, .         .     257 

CHAPTER  XX. 

Bradley  Brown  Again, 2C6 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
Retribution, 270 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Condemnation, 275 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Another  Escape, 278 

CHAPTER  XXiy. 
A  Midnight  Meeting, 287 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
The  Children  of  One  Father, 294 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Midnight  Duty, 304 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
The  Pound  Gap  Expedition, 315 

CHAPTER  XXYIII. 
The  Death  of  "  Beauty," 323 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  "Last  OF  Earth," 329 


On   the   Border 


CHAPTER    I. 

ANCESTRY. 

ISTOKY,  it  is  said,  repeats  itself;  but  this  can  hardly 
be  unless  the  world  be  mo^'ing  in  a  circle,  and  not,  as 
we  suppose,  in  an  unending  spiral  "  onward  and  up- 
ward"    But,  however  this  maybe,  it  is  certain  that 
u,an  reproduces  himself,  -  that,  throwing  aside  his  worn-out 
periwig  and  shoe-buckles,  he  issues  from  the  grave  after  sleep- 
in.  soundly,  perhaps,  for  centuries,  and  stalks  abroad  again  m 
stove-pipe  hat  and  patent-leathers,  to  act  once  more  a  part 
in  the  great  drama  of  human  existence.     To  credit  this  we 
need  not  believe  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  but 
only  accept  the  evident  truth,  that  the  father  impresses  his  na- 
ture on  the  son,  the  grandsire  on  the  grandson,  and  thus  sends 
him  into  the  world  bound  hand  and  foot  with  all  his  ca.t-off 
passions  and  propensities,  only  to  do  over  again   it  may  be 
the  deeds  wMch  made  his  ancestor  execrated  in  his  day  and 
generation.     In  this  way,  if  in  no  other,  history  repeats  itself ; 
L  in  view  of  it  how  inestimable  is  the  birthright  of  which 
Cowper  boasted  -     Who  would  not  rather  inherit  the  virtues 
of  a  peasant  than  the  vices  of  a  king  ?     And  yet,  how  we  look 


12  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  R  D  E  R  . 

down    upon  peasants    and   up  to  Ivings,   never  once  asking 
whether  one  or  the  other  have  either  virtues  or  vices. 

The  young  rustic  who  is  the  principal  actor  in  this  short 
history  was  descended  from  a  long  line  of  peasants ;  and  in 
glancing  back  at  his  ancestors  it  is  curious  to  notice  how  more 
than  one  of  them,  tliough  comfortably  dead  and  buried  for 
nearly  two  hundred  years,  managed  to  reappear  and  act  again 
in  his  brief  career.  The  first  of  these  ancestors,  of  whom 
there  is  any  historical  mention,  was  the  John  Brown  who  so 
heroicall}^  met  death  at  the  hands  of  Claverhouse,  during  the 
civil  war  which  distracted  Scotland  in  1685.  He  lived  at 
Priesthill,  in  Lanarkshire  ;  and,  though  but  an  humble  carrier, 
was  a  man  of  such  shining  virtues  that  he  obtained  honorable 
mention  in  the  annals  of  that  dark  period.  Led  by  convic- 
tions of  duty  to  join  the  Rebellion,  he  was  out  with  the  in- 
surgents at  Bothwell  Bridge,  and  was  thus  included  in  the 
sweeping  sentence  of  outlawry"  which  followed  that  disastrous 
battle.  The  sentence  was  executed  upon  him  by  Claverhouse 
under  circumstances  of  savage  cruelty ;  but  he  met  it  with  a 
fortitude  that  showed  him  possessed  of  such  stuff  as  even  kings 
are  seldom  made  of.  The  circumstance  forms  a  most  wild 
and  picturesque  story,  and  it  is  related  by  the  old  chronicle* 
with  such  rude  and  touching  eloquence,  that  I  am  tempted  to 
transcribe  it. 

*  The  extract  is  from  "  Walker's  Life  of  Peden,"  which  was  published  in 
Edinburgh  in  1724.  Tlae  account  is  briefly  quoted  by  Macaulay  in  Vol.  ii. 
page  74  of  his  historj-  ;  and,  more  at  length,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  "  The 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather."  The  story  took  strong  hold  of  the  poetical  imagi- 
nation and  large  heart  of  the  great  novelist,  as  is  shown  by  his  weaving  some 
of  its  most  affecting  incidents  into  the  beautiful  episode  of  Bessie  Maclure,  in 
Chapter  vi.  of  "  Old  Mortality."  ' 


ANCESTRY.  13 

The  narrative  is  as  follows :  '"'  Between  five  and  six  in  the 
morning,  the  said  John  Brown,  having  performed  the  worsliip 
of  God  in  his  fomily,  was  going,  with  a  spade  in  his  hand  to 
make  read}-  some  peat-ground.  The  mist  being  very  dark,  he 
knew  not  until  the  cruel  and  bloody  Claverhouse  compassed 
him  with  three  troop  of  horse,  brought  him  to  his  house,  and 
there  examined  him,  who,  though  he  was  a  man  of  a  stam- 
mering speech,  yet  answered  him  distinctly  and  soberly,  which 
made  Claverhouse  to  examine  those  whom  he  had  taken  to  be 
his  guides  through  the  muirs,  if  ever  they  heard  him  preach  ? 
They  answered,  'Xo,  no;  he  was  never  a  preacher.'  He 
said,  '  If  he  has  never  preached,  mickle  has  he  prayed  in  his 
time.'  He  said  to  John,  '  Go  to  your  prayers,  for  you  shall 
immediately  die.' 

"When  he  was  praying,  Claverhouse  interrupted  him  three 
times.  One  time  that  he  stopped  him,  he  was  pleading  that 
the  Lord  would  spare  a  remnant,  and  not  make  a  full  end  in 
the  day  of  his  anger.  Claverhouse  said,  '  I  gave  you  time  to 
pray,  and  ye  are  begun  to  preach.'  John  turned  upon  his 
knees,  and  said,  '  Sir,  you  know  neither  the  nature  of  preach- 
ing or  praying,  that  calls  this  preaching.'  Then  he  continued 
without  confusion.  When  ended,  Claverhouse  said,  'Take 
good-night  of  your  wife  and  children.'  His  wife,  standing  by 
with  her  child  in  her  arms  that  she  had  brought  forth  to  him, 
and  another  child  of  his  first  wife's,  he  came  to  her  and  said, 
^Now,  Marian,  the  day  is  come  that  I  told  you  would  come, 
when  I  spake  first  to  you  of  marrying  me.'  She  said,  '  In- 
deed, John,  I  can  willingly  part  with  you.'  Then  he  said, 
'  This  is  aU  I  desire.     I  have  no  more  to  do  but  to  die.' 

"  He  kissed  his  wife  and  bairns,  and  wished  purchased  and 
2 


14  ONTHEBOKDER. 

promised  blessings  to  be  multiplied  upon  them,  and  his  bless- 
ing. Claverliouse  ordered  six  soldiers  to  shoot  him.  The 
most  part  of  the  bullets  came  upon  his  head,  which  scattered 
his  brains  upon  the  ground.  Claverliouse  said  to  his  wife, 
'What  thinkest  thou  of  thy  husband  now,  woman?'  She 
said,  'I  ever  thought  much  of  him,  and  now  more  than 
ever.'  He  said,  'It  were  but  justice  to  lay  thee  beside  him.' 
She  said,  '  If  you  were  permitted,  I  doubt  not  your  crueltie 
would  go  that  length;  but  how  will  ye  make  answer  for  this 
morning's  work  ? '  He  said,  '  To  man  I  can  be  answera- 
ble ;  and  for  God,  I  wdil  take  him  in  my  owm  hand.'  Claver- 
house  mounted  his  horse,  and  marched,  and  left  her  with  the 
corpse  of  her  dead  husband  lying  there.  She  set  the  bairn  on 
the  ground,  and  gathered  his  brains  and  tied  up  his  head,  and 
straighted  his  body,  and  covered  him  in  her  plaid,  and  sat 
down  and  wept  over  him. 

"  It  being  a  very  desert  place,  where  never  victual  grew% 
and  far  from  neighbors,  it  was  some  time  before  any  friends 
came  to  her.  The  first  that  came  was  a  very  fit  hand,  —  that 
old,  singular  Christian  woman  in  the  Cummerhead,  named 
Elizabeth  Menzies,  three  miles  distant,  who  had  been  tried 
with  the  violent  death  of  her  husband  at  Pentland,  afterwards 
of  two  worthy  sons,  —  Thomas  Weir,  who  was  killed  at  Drum- 
clog,  and  David  Steel,  who  was  suddenly  shot  after  being 
taken.  The  said  Marian  Brown,  sitting  upon  her  husband's 
grave,  told  me  that  before  that  she  could  see  no  blood,  except 
she  was  in  danger  to  faint,  but  she  was  helped  to  be  a  witness 
to  aU  this  without  either  fainting  or  confusion ;  only  when  the 
Bhots  were  let  off  her  eyes  dazzled." 

The  infant,   who  w^as   thus  an  unconscious  witness  to  its 


ANCESTRY.  15 

father's  bloody  deatli,  grew  to  womanhood,  and  hecauie  the 
wife  of  one  John  Jordan,  a  Cameronian  minister  of  the  same 
little  parish  of  Priesthill,  and  the  son  of  another  Cameronian 
minister,  who  gave  his  life  for  the  Prince  of  Orange  at  Dun- 
keld.  The  name  of  this  man  has  not  gone  into  history,  but 
tradition  has  kept  his  memory  alive  among  his  descendants 
to  this  day ;  and,  if  one  half  that  it  tells  of  him  be  true,  he 
deserved  the  almost  superstitious  veneration  in  which  he  is 
still  regarded. 

It  is  not  to  my  purpose  to  recount  the  incidents  of  his 
career ;  and,  indeed,  if  I  did,  I  should  be  in  danger  of  con- 
founding truth  with  fiction,  for  the  two  seem  inextricably 
blended  in  the  traditions  which  have  been  handed  down  in 
his  family.  This  much,  however,  is  certain.  He  was  a  man 
of  stern  integrity,  of  singular  religious  insight,  and  of  won- 
derful power  as  a  preacher,  and,  though  only  "  a  man  of  the 
people,"  wielded  an  influence  among  his  clansmen  second 
only  to  that  of  their  hereditary  chieftain. 

Inheriting  his  father's  hatred  of  the  Enghsh  Union,  he  was 
easily  lured  into  the  Eebellion  of  1715,  and  mustering  a  body 
of  his  parishioners,  led  them  to  the  help  of  the  Chevalier 
St.  George  at  Sheriffmuir.  For  his  valor  in  that  battle  he  was 
made,  on  the  field,  a  captain  in  the  regular  forces  under  the 
Earl  of  Mar.  He  followed  the  fortunes  of  the  Pretender  until 
his  defeat  at  Prestonpans,  when  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and, 
with  a  score  of  others  who  had  been  conspicuous  in  the  rebel- 
lion, was  condemned  to  be  shot  at  daybreak  on  the  following 
morning.  The  rest  suffered  death  at  once ;  but  Jordan's  ex- 
ecution was  delayed,  and  he  was  ofiered  life  and  freedom  on 
condition  that  he  would  acknowledge  allegiance  to  the  reign- 


16  O  X     T  H  E     B  O  K  D  E  K  . 

ing  monarch  by  publicly  crying,  "  God  save  King  George  ! " 
This  he  refused  to  do,  and  then  his  enemies,  bent  on  saving 
him,  —  whether  from  admiration  of  his  character,  or  because 
they  desired  liis  conciliatory  offices  with  the  other  Cameroni- 
ans,  tradition  does  not  state,  —  adopted  a  novel  mode  of  exe- 
cution which,  while  keeping  death  before  him  for  hours,  gave 
him  opportunity  to  retreat  from  his  fate  at  the  very  last  mo- 
ment. 

Taking  him-  to  the  bank  of  the  Forth,  they  chained  him  to 
a  stake  driven  into  the  sand  at  low-water  mark.  It  was  the 
fall  of  the  year,  and  the  water  was  as  cold  as  in  midwinter. 
It  came  up  to  his  knees,  to  his  waist,  to  his  armpits,  and  at 
last,  with  an  icy  embrace,  encircled  his  neck  and  shoulders. 
His  executioners  from  the  shore  had  from  time  to  time  urged 
him  to  utter  the  few  words  that  would  save  his  life,  and  they 
now  cried  out,  "  For  God's  sake,  mon,  speak  !  Say  the  words, 
an'  ye  wad  na  do  self-murder !  " 

He  looked  at  his  wife,  w^ho  was  standing  near,  but  made  no 
answer.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  hesitate ;  then,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  his,  she  hoarsely  whispered,  — 

"John,  ye  wat  that  God  is  aboon  ye;  that  the  angels  are 
waiting." 

"  Yea,  lass,  my  only  thoctht  is  of  yoursel  and  the  bairns  !  " 

"  Think  na'  of  us,"  she  answered.  "  He  is  Father  to  the 
fatherless  —  husband  to  the  widow!"  and  she  sank  upon  her 
knees,  her  arms  stretched  upward. 

"  Then  my  fecht  is  done,"  he  answered.  "  But,  be  of  good 
cheer,  Jennie.     In  the  dark  days  I  will  be  with  ye." 

The  water  was  now  even  with  his  nostrils,  and,  raising  him- 
self on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  he  cried  to  her,  — 


ANCKSTRY. 


'•  Bid  John  be  worthy  of  his  ancestors."     Then  he  sank 
again  to  his  feet,  antl  the  swelling  wave  swept  over  him. 

Of  this  woman  — the  Jennie  Brown  whose  father  suffered 
martyrdom  at  the  hands  of  Claverhouse  —  many  marvellous 
stories  are  told.  She  is  said  to  have  had  the  strange  fac- 
ulty of  "  second-sight,"  of  which  such  frequent  mention  is 
made  in  the  traditions  of  Scotland,  and  to  have  possessed  the 
power  of  healing  by  a  word,  or  by  the  laying  on  of  hands  after 
the  manner  of  the  early  Christians.  On  one  occasion,  says 
tradition,  she  entered  the  house  of  a  woman  who  had  been 
bedridden  for  many  years,  and,  looking  upon  her,  said,  — 
"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  I  say  to  thee,  Rise  ! " 
The  woman,  it  is  said,  rose,  and  lived  in  good  health  to  the 
age  of  eighty. 

At  another  time,  it  is  also  said,  she  restored  a  child  who 
had  lain  apparently  dead  a  dozen  hours ;  and  almost  number- 
less instances  are  related  of  her  curing,  by  a  touch,  those  sick 
of  divers  diseases,  and  those  wounded  in  battle.  ^ 

But  still  more  marvellous  was  her  strange  power  of  "second- 
sight."  If  the  tradition  be  true,  she  not  only  saw  into  the 
unseen  world  which  lies,  an  invisible  cloud,  all  about  us,  but 
with  mortal  eye  read  in  the  shadows  of  coming  events  the 
far-off  and  mysterious  future.  She  is  said  to  have  witnessed, 
in  a  series  of  visions,  tlie  defeat  and  misfortunes  of  the  Pre- 
tender, long  before  he  set  foot  in  Scotland,  and  to  have  fore- 
told, months  before  the  event,  the  fate  which  overtook  her 
husband. 

"  John,"  she  said  to  him,  "  I  see  ye  chained  to  a  stake,  and 
the  waters  rising  round  ye !  But,  stand  fast ;  die  like  a 
Christian." 


2* 


18  ONTIIEBORDER. 

Her  son,  tlie  third  John  Jordan  of  whom  the  family  has 
knowledge,  inherited  the  peculiarities  of  both  his  father  and 
mother.  He  had  her  delicate  organization  and  wonderful 
gift  of  spirit-vision,  and  his  force  of  character  and  religious 
fervor  and  insight.  He,  too,  was  a  Cameronian  minister,  and, 
like  his  father,  met  death  at  the  hands  of  the  ruling  aristocra- 
cy. Engaging  in  the  Rebellion  of  1745,  he  was  taken  pris- 
oner, condemned,  and  executed,  after  being  offered  life  if  he 
would  swear  allegiance  to  the  English  government.  His  aged 
mother  stood  beside  the  block  to  cheer  his  last  moments, 
and,  as  the  axe  was  about  to  descend,  told  him  of  a  vision 
she  had  of  the  waiting  angels. 

This  woman,  who  thus  witnessed  the  execution  of  her 
father,  her  son,  and  her  husband,  lived  to  a  great  age,  and 
died  at  last  in  the  arms  of  a  grandson,  revered  by  all  who 
knew  her,  and  leaving  a  name  which  even  now  is  only  sjioken 
with  uncovered  head  by  her  remote  descendants. 

The  year  1745  saw  the  end  of  civil  commotions  in  Scot- 
land, and  after  that  the  Jordans  —  father,  son,  and  grandson 
—  walked  in  peaceful  ways,  and  died  in  their  beds  like  other 
Scotchmen.  They  all  were  of  the  Cameronian  faith,  and  all 
preachers  in  good  standing ;  but  tradition  makes  especial 
mention  of  only  one  of  them.  He  was  minister  at  Stirling, 
and  on  him  the  mantle  of  the  old  Seeress  and  the  Cameronian 
captain  seems  to  have  fallen.  He  was  a  man  of  iron  mould, 
powerful  in  word  and  deed,  and  with  ungloved  hand  he  tore 
aside  the  veil  before  the  very  Holy  of  Holies.  With  that 
strange  gift  of  "  second-sight "  he  read  the  Apocah^pse.  To 
him  it  seemed  not  a  revelation  of  things  "coming  on  the 
earth,"  but  a  history  of  the  spirit  world,  from   the  birth  of 


ANCESTRY.  19 

Adam  to  the  day  when  the  last  man  shall  look  up  at  the  sky, 
and  amid  the  wreck  of  a  dissolving  universe,  cry,  "  It  is  fin- 
islied."  The  book  he  left  behind  on  the  subject  is  full  of  ge- 
nius, and  indicates  that  if  his  mind  had  not  been  cramped  by 
a  narrow  Calvinism,  he  might  have  uttered  words  that  would 
have  "  been  music  to  the  listening  ages." 

The  grandson  of  this  man  —  the  seventh  in  regular  descent 
from  the  old  Cameronian  —  was  born  at  Sterling  in  the  year 
1795,  and,  being  the  oldest  son,  was  baptized  by  the  name  of 
John,  and  destined  for  the  hereditary  office  of  preacher.  But 
when  he  began  to  talk,  it  was  discovered  that  he  had  inheijted 
the  stammering  tongue  of  his  great  ancestor.  This  shut  him 
out  from  the  ministry,  and  the  "  keys  of  heaven  "  descended 
to  a  younger  brother. 

This  Jordan  received  a  respectable  education,  and  adopted, 
when  he  grew  up,  the  profession  of  land  surveyor.  But  an 
old  country  affords  little  scope  for  such  a  pursuit,  and,  at  the 
close  of  the  war  of  1812,  he  emigrated  to  America. 

At  first  he  joined  the  Scotch  settlers  who  had  located 
at  Fayetteville  in  North  Carolina,  but  soon  afterward  removed 
to  Virginia,  where,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  he  married  a  wo- 
man who,  how  truly  I  know  not,  claimed  direct  descent  from 
the  James-river  Huguenots.  She  was  fifteen  years  younger 
than  himself,  and  a  family  might  grow  up  about  him  ;  so,  with 
Scotch  foresight,  he  sought  a  home  in  a  newer  district,  where 
every  one  of  his  posterity  might  become  the  lord  of  a  thou- 
sand acres.  He  removed  to  Paintville,  a  little  town  in  the 
"  Piedmont  region  "  of  Kentuck}^ 

This  is  a  district  larger  than  the  whole  of  Massachusetts ; 
but   is   as   little  known  to  the  people  of  this  generation  as 


2.)  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  li  D  E  R  . 

M-as  the  Garden  of  Eden  to  the  races  of  men  wlio,  some  geolo- 
gists tell  us,  made  their  graves  in  the  strata  of  the  earth  fifty 
thousand  j^ears  ago.  Though  in  the  world,  it  is  not  of  the 
v^orld, —  not,  at  least,  of  this  world,  which  drives  stage-coaches, 
builds  railroads,  talks  across  wide  oceans,  and  wends  its  way 
to  the  other  life  through  the  marble  aisles  of  churches  whose 
spires,  it  may  be,  come  no  nearer  to  heaven  than  the  famous 
tower  once  builded  to  furnish  man  au  easy  ascent  to  the  celes- 
tial country. 

It  is  a  rugged,  rocky  region,  broken  into  high  hills  and  nar- 
row valleys,  and  covered  —  except  where  dotted  with  little 
plantations  of  wheat  and  Indian  corn  —  with  vast  forests  of 
oak  and  maple,  and  the  honey-locust,  grown  gray  with  the 
gathered  moss  of  man}-  centuries.  In  the  hilly  portion  the 
soil  is  stony  and  sterile;  but  along  the  valleys  it  is  of  amaz- 
ing fertility,  yielding  most  abundantly  of  the  fruits  of 
the  earth  ;  and  in  these  valleys  dwell  the  aristocracy  of  the 
district ;  for  even  in  this  primitive  region,  shut  out  as  it  is 
by  a  sort  of  Chinese  wall  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  are 
people  who  somehow  have  imbibed  the  civilized  notion  that  a 
man's  own  blood  is  of  somewhat  better  quality  than  that  of 
his  neighbors.  Aside  from  this  class,  —  who,  being  of  a  su- 
perior race,  may  properly  be  excluded  from  any  general  census 
of  a  country,  —  the  district  has  a  population  of  about  one 
hundred  thousand  whites  and  four  thousand  blacks,  a  brave, 
hardy,  rural  people,  with  few  schools,  scarcely  any  church- 
es, and  only  one  newspaper,  but  with  the  simple  virtues  which 
grow  among  mountains,  and  now  and  then  clothe  even  bar- 
ren hillsides  with  a  moral  beauty  that  is  something  akin  to 
the  bloom  of  their  own  wild  flowers. 


ANCESTRY. 


In  the  very  heart  of  this  region  is  the  little  town  I  have 
mentioned,  and  there  Jordan  rented  a  small  house,  and  put  up 
a  small  sign,  which  told  all  the  world—  as  plainly  as  a  small 
sign  in  a  "retired  locality  could  tell  it  — that  he  was  a  '^  Sur- 
veyor and  Draughtsman  of  Legal  Instruments."     The  latter 
part  of  the  inscription  the  rustic  denizens  of  the  district,  after 
a  while,  managed  to  make  out  by  dint  of  hard  spelling;  but 
the    former   altogether   baffled   their   comprehension.     Legal 
meant  law,  and  so,  Jordan  was  a  lawyer;  and  survey  meant 
to  look,  so  Jordan  was  a  lawyer   looking  for  land  ;    and  of 
that  there  were  square  miles  for  sale  at  his  very  door-way.    Before 
a  month  passed  at  least  a  million  acres  of  stony  field  and 
barren  mountain  were  trundled  up  to  his  door,  and  offered 
to  him  "  at  haff  thar  valu."      He  explained  that  he  was  a 
measurer   not    a   buyer  of  terra-firma,  and  then  the  honest 
rustics  said  to  him  :  "  Wall,  stranger,  ye  hev  brung  yer  eggs 
to  a  pore  market.     We  buy  land  by  the  lump,  —  so  much, 
more  or  less,  — and  we  reckon  we  kin  guess  'bout  as  nigh  as 
other  men  kin  measure." 

Jordan  was  a  man  of  decision  and  energy,  and  he  at  once 
determined  to  return  to  Virginia.     He  was  about  to  set  out 
with  his  wife,  and  his  small  store  of  worldly  wealth,  when  one 
evening  a  stranger  came  to  see  him.     He  was  a  man  of  mid- 
dle   age,  blunt   and  rather  imperious  in  manner,  and  he  ac- 
costed the  Cameronian  somewhat  as  follows  :  — 
"Your  name,  they  tell  me,  is  Jordan." 
"  It  is,  sir,"  said  Jordan. 
"  Are  you  an  honest  man  ?  "  asked  the  other. 
"  I  am  a  Scotchman,"  said  Jordan,  probably  thinking  that 
a  full  answer  to  the  question. 


22  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  K  D  E  R  . 

The  other  laughed,  and  said,  good-humoredly,  "  Well,  I've 
kno\yn  a  good  many  Scotchmen  who  were  fools  ;  but  none  who 
were  scoundrels.  I  reckon  you  will  do.  1  want  you  to  take 
the  oversight  of  my  plantation." 

Upon  this  Jordan  asked  the  stranger  to  be  seated,  and  the 
latter,  accepting  the  somewhat  tardy  civility,  went  on  to  say 
that  his  name  was  Weddington,  —  'Squire  Weddiugton,  attor- 
ney-at-law,  member  of  the  House,  and,  in  short,  the  first  man 
of  the  district.  He  closed  a  brief  but  rather  egotistical  ac- 
count of  himself  by  saying :  "  I  have  married  a  wife.  She 
is  twenty  years  younger  than  I  am,  and  to  bridge  over  the 
distance  between  us,  I've  promised  her  a  tour  in  Europe.  I 
want  an  honest  man  to  look  after  my  affairs  while  I  am  away. 
I'll  give  you  five  hundred  a  year,  a  house  to  live  in,  and  as 
much  as  you  can  eat  from  the  plantation." 

The  proposition  actually  dazzled  Jordan.  He  saw  in  it  ed- 
ucation, perhaps  wealth,  for  his  unborn  children  ;  but  his 
Scotch  honesty  suggested  some  obstacles.  He  explained  that 
he  •knew  nothing  of  planting,  and  that  he  had  a"  natural 
antipath}^  to  the  negro. 

The  'Squire  met  these  objections  as  follows  :  "  Planting  ! 
Why,  the  hands  do  that.  And  as  for  the  nigger,  I  wouldn't 
give  a  continental  dime  for  an  overseer  who  didn't  hate  the 
very  continent  of  Africa." 

His  objections  so  easily  disposed  of,  Jordan  very  soon  took 
possession  of  the  vine-clad  cabin,  which,  for  a  dozen  years,  had 
been  occupied  by  the  overseers  of  the  'Squire's  plantation. 

The  plantation  was  located  near  the  head-waters  of  a  small 
stream  called  the  Blaine,  which  empties  into  the  Big  Sandy, 
not  far  from  the  town  of  Louisa,  in  Kentucky  ;  and  the  cabin 


A  X  C  E  S  T  U  V  .  'S3 

was  a  rude  structure  of  logs,  laid  up  in  cla}^  ;  Lut  it  was  so 
overgrown  witli  vines  and  creeping-plants,  that  one  half  of  its 
natural  ugliness  was  hidden  from  the  eye,  and  it  seemed  to 
have  sprung  from  the  ground,  a  ready-made  human  habita- 
tion. In  other  respects  it  was  not  unlike  thousands  of  log 
dwellings  that  are  so  plentifully  scattered  all  over  the  South- 
ern country.  It  had  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  separated 
by  an  open  passage-way,  an  unfurnished  loft,  approached  by  a 
couple  of  rickety  ladders,  a  low  roof  falling  down  at  the  eaves 
so  as  to  form  the  covering  of  a  wide  veranda,  and  two  enor- 
mous chimney-stacks  rising  at  either  gable  like  mud  models 
of  the  Egyptian  pyramids. 

Located  in  the  very  heart  of  the  forest,  the  great  trees 
crowded  around  it  so  closel}^  that  their  branches  overhung  its 
very  roof,  and  only  a  small  patch  of  tilled  land,  sloping  down 
in  its  front  to  a  little  stream  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  allowed  it 
any  view  of  the  outside  world.  But  this  view  was  broad  and 
picturesque.  Far  away  a  long  mountain  range  rose  against 
the  sky,  and  far  below,  an  extended  valley,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  little  farms  and  broad  plantations,  lay  spread  out 
like  a  map  ;  and  through  this  valley  wound  the  narrow  road, 
which,  like  a  slender  thread,  held  this  rustic  region  to  the  rest 
of  creation. 

In  this  rude  cabin,  on  the  tenth  of  September,  a.  d.  1832, 
just  as  the  moon  was  breaking  through  the  clouds  of  a  some- 
what murky  midnight,  was  born  another  John  Jordan,  —  the 
eighth  in  descent  from  the  old  Cameronian,  —  and  with  his 
birth  our  little  history  has  its  proper  beginning. 


CHAPTER    II. 


THE   SHADOWS    OF    COMING   EVENTS. 


'>? 


HE  antipathy  of  Jordan  to  the  negroes  was  deeper 
than  even  he  had  imagined.  They  proved  a  perj^et- 
ual  trial  to  him  ;  but  he  was  a  man  who  would  have 
cut  off  his  right  hand,  if  it  had  come  in  the  way  of 
his  duty ;  and  he  ^et  about  his  new  vocation  with  the  same 
self-devotion  that  made  martyrs  of  his  ancestors.  Soon  his 
management  worked  miracles,  as  genuine  as  an}^  that  are  re- 
ported of  the  old  Seeress.  It  transformed  a  hundred  idle, 
eye-serving,  dissolute  wretches,  into  as  many  industrious, 
faithful,  and  respectable  men  and  women.  They  had  been 
driven  hard  all  the  week,  and  even  denied  religious  services 
on  Sunday ;  but  Jordan  allowed  them  Saturdays  to  work  for 
themselves,  and  built  for  them  a  log  church  on  a  distant  cor- 
ner of  the  plantation. 

After  an  absence  of  about  three  years  the  'Squire  returned 
from  his  European  tour,  and  had  a  reckoning  with  his  over- 
seer. He  had  received  frequent  accounts  from  him,  but  was 
not  prepared  for  the  final  result  of  his  balance-sheet. 

"Why,  Jordan,"  he  exclaimed,  "you've  paid  the  expenses 
of  my  journey  over  and  above  the  ordinary  yield  of  the  j^lan- 
tation  !     Here's  my  check  for  an  extra  five  hundred  ;  and  I'll 

(24) 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  25 

give  you  a  deed  of  the  cabin  and  a  hundred  acres,  if  you'll 
stay  with  me  five  years  longer." 

These  terms  being  agreed  upon,  Jordan  was  about  taking 
his  leave,  when  the  'Squire,  who  was  in  a  liberal  mood,  called 
him  back,  saying,  "Jordan,  about  that  boy  who  has  come  to 
your  house  since  I've  been  away.  Give  him  my  name,  and 
I'll  see  that  he  has  an  education." 

"  I  thank  you,  'Squire,"  answered  Jordan ;  "  he  is  already 
named,  —  John,  after  his  ancestors." 

'•  D— n    his   ancestors !      What    can    they  do    for    him  ? 
Call  him  after  me,  and  I'll  make  him  a  Qongress-man." 
Jordan's  gray  eyes  flashed  ;  but  he  answered,  coolly,  — 
"Sir,  the  boy  inherits  his  name  from  men  whose  blood 
helped  to  give  freedom  to  Scotland.     Not  for  all  your  money 
would  I  change  it." 

"  Well,  weU,"  said  the  'Squire,  "  you  Scotch  are  a  queer  set ; 
but  I'm  d— d  if  you  aren't  honest.  There's  my  hand,  Jor- 
dan ;  take  no  offence  —  I  meant  none." 

Jordan  took  his  hand,  and  tried,  honestly  tried,  to  forgive 
him  ;  but  the  insult  rankled  within  him,  and  was  not  for  a 
long  time  forgotten.  The  two  men,  however,  never  but  once 
came  in  collision.  This  occurred  two  years  afterward,  and 
may  as  well  be  mentioned,  as  it  has  some  bearing  on  the 
future  of  this  narrative. 

The  'Squire  was  a  luxurious  liver,  and  from  his  youth  up 
had  been  sadly  given  to  the  "  gentlemanly  "  vices  of  gaming, 
drinking,  and  horse-racing.  Of  these  vices  his  fi-iends  pre- 
dicted that  matrimony  would  cure  him  ;  but  it  seemed  to  have 
a  contrary  effect,  for,  on  his  return  from  Europe,  he  plunged 
deeper  than    ever   into   dissipation.     It   soon  was  whispered 

3 


26  ONTHEBORDER. 

about  that  he  and  his  wife  did  not  live  happily  together ; 
that  he  had  learned  the  truth  of  the  old  adage,  "  A  young 
maid's  heart  is  not  bouglit  by  an  old  man's  money,"  and  was 
trying  to  drown  his  disap]3ointment  in  the  bottle.  But  this 
was  only  conjecture.  Nothing  certain  was  known,  except  the 
evident  fact  that  the  'Squire  was  making  rapid  progress  down- 
ward. 

He  was,  as  has  been  said,  a  member  of  the  Legislature,  and 
every  winter  he  went,  with  his  wife,  to  Lexington,  returning 
home  at  the  close  of  the  session.  One  spring,  the  next  after 
his  return  from  abroad,  he  came  back  to  the  mansion  bringing 
with  him  a  gentleman  named  Irving,  who  remained  during 
the  summer.  Irving  was  a  dark,  silent  man,  many  years  the 
'Squire's  junior,  but  the  two  seemed  on  a  footing  of  the  most 
intimate  friendship.  They  rode,  drank,  smoked,  and  gam- 
bled together,  and  it  was  said  that  large  sums  were  often  lost 
and  won  between  them  in  the  little  billiard-room  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  mansion.  In  the  course  of  the  summer  the 
'Squire  was  called  North  on  business,  and  invited  Irving  to  go 
with  him ;  but  the  latter  declined,  alleging  that  he  had  taken 
oath  never  again  to  set  foot  on  abolition  territory.  This,  to 
the  'Squire,  seemed  a  natural  feeling  for  a  Southern  gentleman, 
and  he  went  away,  leaving  Irving  behind  with  Mrs.  Wed- 
dington.  After  a  few  weeks  he  returned,  and  then  the  two 
friends  resumed  their  intimacy. 

The  'Squire's  marriage  had  been  barren  ;  but  in  the  follow- 
ing summer  he  was  blessed  with  an  heir,  —  a  fine  boy,  who 
was  boisterously  welcomed  by  the  whole  plantation.  The 
coming  of  a  young  stranger  is  usually  a  happy  event  in  any 
family ;  but  it  promised  to  be  peculiarly  happy  in  this  family. 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  27 

It  wrought  an  entire  revolution  in  Weddington.  He  threw 
off  his  bad  habits  as  other  men  throw  off  their  worn-out 
garments,  went  about  again  among  his  neighbors,  looked 
into  the  condition  of  his  slaves,  and  one  night  even  came  to 
Jordan's  cabin  to  examine  his  accounts,  and  see  how  affairs 
for  the  previous  year  had  been  managed. 

Jordan  had  not  yet  forgotten  his  allusion  to  his  venerated 
ancestry ;  but  he  was  a  true  man,  and  such  a  change  in 
any  one  would  have  given  him  exquisite  gratification.  On 
this  occasion  he  could  not  repress  his  feelings,  and  when 
they  had  gone  over  the  accounts  together,  he  said  to  the 
'Squire,  — 

"  Mr.  Weddington,  I  must  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you  again  a  man." 

Not  heeding  the  bluntness  of  the  remark,  the  'Squire  an- 
swered, warmly,  — 

"  Why,  bless  your  soul !  don't  you  know  ?  I've  something 
now  to  live  for !  " 

At  the  close  of  the  summer  Irving  reappeared  at  the  man- 
sion ;  but  after  a  few  weeks  went  away  again,  taking  with 
him  one  of  the  'Squire's  negroes. 

This  negro,  whose  name  was  Ezekiel,  had  been  brought  up 
with  Weddington  from  boyhood,  and  his  sale  was  a  matter  of 
astonishment  to  Jordan.  He  was  the  preacher  of  the  planta- 
tion, and  wielded  a  great  influence  over  the  other  negroes,  — 
so  great  that  his  absence  bred  a  spirit  of  discontent  among 
them,  which  soon  became  troublesome  to  the  overseer.  Jor- 
dan mentioned  this  to  Weddington,  and  suggested  that  he 
should  buy  Ezekiel  back ;  but  the  'Squire  answered  him 
rather  testily,  — 


28  *  ONTHEBOKDER. 

"  Let  me  manage  my  own  affairs,  Mr.  Jordan.  'Zeke  can't 
come  again  upon  the  plantation." 

He  did,  however,  come  again  —  the  next  summer,  with  his 
master ;  but  he  lodged  in  Jordan's  barn,  and  carefully  avoided 
being  seen  by  Weddington.  Then  Jordan  learned  why  he 
had  been  sold ;  but  he  kept  the  reason  secret,  even  from  his 
wife,  saying  only,  — 

"  'Zekiel,  presuming  on  his  long  connection  with  his  mas- 
ter, gave  him  some  unwholeson\£  advice,  and,  to  punish  his 
presumption,  the  'Squire  sold  him  to  Irving." 

That  night  Jordan  went  to  the  mansion.  What  passed 
between  him  and  Weddington  on  the  occasion  is  not  known ; 
but  on  his  return  to  the  cabin,  he  said  to  his  wife,  — 

"Euth,  the  'Squire  and  I  have  had  words.  Shall  we  go 
back  to  Virginia  ?  " 

"  Where  ye  will,  John,"  she  answered.  "  Yer  country  ar* 
my  country,  yer  God  my  God ; "  and,  strange  to  say,  she 
asked  no  questions. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  negro  and  his  master  went 
away,  and  a  few  nights  afterward  the  'Squire  came  to  Jordan's 
cabin.  His  face  was  pallid,  his  beard  long,  his  hair  dishev- 
elled. He  looked  like  a  man  just  recovering  from  a  deep  de- 
bauch or  a  long  sickness.  Half-walking,  half-staggering  into 
the  room,  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Jordan. 

"I've  come  to  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "What  you 
said  was  false,  —  false  as  hell ;  but  you're  a  true  man,  and  I 
ask  your  pardon." 

Jordan  took  his  hand,  and  said  with  an  unusual  degree  of 
warmth,  for  his  temperament  was  as  cool  as  the  north  of  Scot- 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     K  V  E  N  T  S  . 


29 


land,  "Say  nothing  of  it,  'Squire.     It  is  all  forgotten.     I  am 
sorry  to  see  you've  suffered." 

With  this  the  'Squire's  composure  forsook  him,  and,  sinking 
into  a  chair,  he  covered. his  face  with  his  hands,  and  groaned 
audibly.  Turning  to  his  wife,  Jordan  asked  her  to  take  the 
child  —  the  younger  John,  who  was  playing  on  the  floor  — 
into  another  room ;  and  then  the  two  men  were,  for  more 
than  an  hour,  alone  together. 

AVhen  the  'Squire  had  gone,  Jordan  said  to  his  wife,  — 
"  Euth,  we  must  go  to  the  mansion  for  a  while.    The  'Squire 
is  obliged  to  go  away,-  and  the  mistress  is  taken  suddenly  ill, 
and  needs  your  nursing." 

"  As  ye  will,  John,"  answered  Ruth,  and  again  the  wonder- 
ftd  woman  asked  no  questions. 

On  the  following  day  the  'Squire  went  away,  and  Jordan, 
his  wife  and  child,  took  up  their  abode  at  the  mansion.  Mrs. 
Weddington  was  suffering  severely  from  a  nervous  disorder, 
but  she  steadily  refused  to  have  a  physician.  Day  and  night 
she  walked  the  room,  wringing  her  hands  and  uttering  pierc- 
ing cries,  and,  at  times,  grovelling  on  the  floor  like  a  mad 
woman.  She  scarcely  ate  or  slept,  and  soon  had  dwindled  to 
a  skeleton.  Then  Ruth  became  alarmed,  and  said  to  her  hus- 
band, "  John,  if  we  longer  heed  her  whims,  her  death'll  be  on 
us.     Ye  must  go  for  a  doctor." 

He  went  for  one  immediately.  The  village  was  twelve 
miles  away,  and  he  did  not  return  tiU  nightfall;  but  then  his 
wife  met  him  at  the  door,  and,  with  a  smiling  face,  said,  — 

"  She's  a  deal  better,  —  a  deal  better,  John  !  Mr.  Irving 
has  been  here,  and  ever  since  she's  been  mending."     The  cool 


3* 


30  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  R  D  E  R  . 

Scotchman  started  back ;  his  face  grew  suddenly  pale  j  even 
his  sandy  hair  took  on  an  ashen  color. 

"  Wliat  do  ye  say,  woman  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Irving 
here ! " 

"  Why,  yes,"  answered  his  astonished  wife.  "  Ye'd  not  been 
gone  two  hours.  He  asked  for  the  lady,  and  she  come  down 
to  see  him  ;  and  ever  since  she's  been  better,  —  a  deal  better. 
I  hope  it  warn't  no  harm." 

Jordan  made  no  answer,  but  told  a  servant  to  show  the 
physician  to  the  lady's  apartment.  In  a  few  moments  the 
medical  man  came  downstairs,  saying  that  Mrs.  Weddington 
was  sleeping  soundly,  and  had  better  not  be  disturbed.  He 
would  remain  over  night,  and  see  her  in  the  morning. 

During  the  night  the  attendant  with  the  lady  came  to  the 
physician's  room,  and  called  him  to  the  bedside  of  her 
mistress. 

He  found  her  delirious  and  in  a  high  fever.  After  that  he 
did  not  leave  the  mansion  for  a  fortnight,  and  then  Mrs. 
Weddington  had  sunk  into  that  deep  sleep  which  on  this 
earth  has  no  awaking. 

As  soon  as  she  was  known  to  be  in  danger,  Jordan  wrote  to 
her  husband,  stating  her  condition.  He  was  supposed  to  be 
at  Lexington,  and  distant  only  two  days'  journey;  but  he  did 
not  arrive  at  the  plantation  until  four  days  after  the  death  of 
his  wife,  and  then,  the  weather  being  warm,  she  had  been 
two  days  buried. 

He  came  just  in  the  edge  of  evening,  and,  entering  Jordan's 
room  in  the  dim  twilight,  said  to  him  in  a  collected  way,  "My 
friend,  I  am  glad  to  see  you."  Then  he  sat  down,  rested  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  said  nothing  for  some  minutes. 


T  H  K     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  31 

At  last,  without  looking  up,  he  asked,  — 

"  How  is  the  mistress  ?  " 

"  She  is  well,"  answered  Jordan,  with  the  feeling  which 
makes  a  strong  man's  voice  as  soft  as  that  of  a  woman.  "  It 
is  well  with  her,  I  hope,  forever." 

"  It  is  well !  "  answered  Weddington.  Then,  rising  from 
his  seat,  he  added,  "  Be  good  enough  to  give  me  a  candle.  I 
will  go  to  my  room." 

In  the  morning  breakfast  was  sent  up  to  him,  and  soon 
afterward  the  servant  came  down,  saying  that  his  master 
would  see  "  Massa  Jordan." 

Jordan  found  him  by  an  open  window,    smoking  a  cigar. 

"Jordan,"  he  said,  more  kindly  than  usual,  "I  want  to  go 
away  for  a  while  ;  have  you  any  money  ?  Somebody  has 
robbed  me." 

"  Kobbed  you  ! "  echoed  Jordan,  turning  instinctively  to  an 
iron  safe  which  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  apartment. 

"Yes,  I  had  twenty-five  Kentucky  Sixes  when  I  went 
away.  They  are  gone  now ;  and,  when  I  looked  for  them 
this  morning,  the  key  was  in  the  safe." 

"  The  key  in  the  safe  !  Where  have  you  kept  it  ?  "  asked 
Jordan. 

"  Behind  some  books,  on  a  shelf,  in  that  closet." 

Obeying  a  natural  impulse,  Jordan  opened  the  safe,  and 
began  to  look  over  the  contents.  They  were  a  few  account- 
books,  and  a  quantity  of  loose  papers,  scattered  about  in  some 
confusion.  Taking  out  the  books,  one  by  one,  he  had  begun 
to  examine  the  papers,  when  the  'Squire  said,  — 

"  It  is  useless  to  look.  They  are  gone.  They  were  tied 
up  with  red  tape,  and  in  the  upper  drawer." 


32  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  R  D  E  R  . 

Jordan  opened  the  drawer.  It  was  empty,  but  a  piece  of 
red  tape  lay  among  the  disordered  papers.  Taking  it  up  he 
found  one  of  the  ends  coiled  loosely  about  some  neatly-folded 
documents.  Unfolding  one  of  them,  his  eye  fell  on  the  broad 
seal  of  Kentucky ;  and,  rising  suddenly  to  his  feet,  he  ex- 
claimed, — 

"  Here  they  are !  Safe,  after  all !  The  thief  must  have 
dropped  them." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  the  'Squire,  taking  the  papers,  and 
passing  them  mechanically  through  his  fingers.  In  a  mo- 
ment, in  the  same  indifferent  way  as  before,  he  added,  "  But 
here  are  onlj^  fifteen,  —  I  had  twenty-five." 

"  Only  fifteen ! "  echoed  Jordan,  taking  the  bonds,  and 
counting  them  hurriedly.  Then,  kneeling  down,  he  began 
to  look  carefully  among  the  remaining  papers. 

The  'Squire  lighted  another  cigar  and  gazed,  for  a  time, 
vacantly  out  at  the  window ;  then  he  rose  suddenly  to  his 
feet,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  hair,  and  paced  rapidly  up  and 
down  the  apartment.  Jordan  stood  for  a  moment  fixed  to 
the  floor  with  amazement ;  at  last  he  said,  — 

"'Squire,  don't  take  on.  You  have  the  numbers.  The 
thief  can't  possibly  pass  them  without  detection." 

"  D — n  the  bonds  !  Let  them  go.  Leave  me  !  Leave 
the  room,  I  tell  you  !  "  cried  the  'Squire,  stamping  violently 
on  the  floor. 

At  the  hour  of  noon  the  servant,  going  to  his  master's  door 
with  dinner,  found  it  locked ;  but  heard  footsteps  pacing  rap- 
idly up  and  down  the  room.  Again  at  supper-time  he  found 
the  door  locked,  and  coming  away  told  Jordan  that  his  mas- 
ter must  be  dying,  for  he  was  no  longer  walking  about,  but 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  33 

groaning  heavily.  Jordan  and  his  wife  rushed  upstairs,  and 
tried  to  enter  the  apartment  ;  but  the  door  resisted  their 
efforts.  Then  Jordan  bent  down  and  listened  ;  but  soon  he 
turned,  and  led  his  wife  away,  saying,  — 

"  Let  us  leave  hin>  alone  —  alone  with  his  great  sorrow." 
In  the  morning  Weddington's  bell  rang  a  little  after  day- 
break, and  Jordan,  without  waiting  for  a  servant,  went  up  to 
his  apartment.  He  was  seated  by  a  window,  fully  dressed, 
and  his  boots  were  wet  and  muddy.  He  had  evidently  been 
out  of  doors  in  the  night-time.  He  turned  round  as  the 
overseer  entered,  and,  half  rising  from  his  seat,  said,  — 

"  Ah !     Jordan,     I'm   glad     you've     come.     Sit   down  — 

here close  by  me.     Look  me  in  the  face.     Do  I  look  like 

a  villain?" 

Jordan  smiled,  as  he  answered, — 

"  You  know  I'm  a  peaceable  man,  'Squire  ;  but  my  Scotch 
temper  would  be  tried  if  any  man  should  say  that  of 
you." 

"  But  you're  an  honest  man.  I  w^ant  to  know  —  if  I  look 
like  a  villain?" 

"  No,  'Squire  !     Like  anything  but  a  villain." 
"  That's   enough,"    said   Weddington.     "  Now,  let  what's 
happened  here  rest  between  us." 

"  As  you  say,  'Squire,"  answered  Jordan,  "but  you're  not 
well.     Keep  quiet  for  a  few  days.     I'll  track  the  bonds." 

•'♦  Let  the  bonds  go,  I  tell  you !     I'll  manage  them,"  said 
the  'Squire,  somewhat  impatiently.    . "  I  mean  you  shall  say 
nothing  of  the  robbery.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 
"  Yes  —  yes,"  stammered  the  overseer. 
"Well,"  said   the   'Squire,  "I    shall   go    away  to-morrow. 


34 


ON     TUE     BOKDEK. 


To-day  I  want  to  be  alone.  You  may  send  me  some  break- 
fast." 

Jordan  saw  no  more  of  Weddington  during  that  da}^ ;  but 
on  the  following  morning  he  went  again  to  his  apartment. 
He  had  already  risen,  and  a  small  portmanteau,  ready 
strapped,  stood  by  his  bedside.  His  eye  lighted  up  as  Jordan 
entered  the  room. 

"  Ah  !  Jordan,"  he  said  ;  "  sit  down  —  here,  by  the  table. 
I  am  going  away ;  where,  and  for  how  long,  I  don't  know. 
Here  are  some  papers  which,  if  I  don't  come  back,  you  will 
open.  They  leave  you  in  possession  of  the  plantation  till 
Jackson  comes  of  age.  I  owe  some  debts.  Here  is  the  list. 
You  will  pay  them  with  the  avails  of  these  bonds.  There 
will  be  a  balance  left,  and  that,  whether  I  return  or  not,  I 
want  you  to  consider  your  own." 

The  faithful  Scotchman  had  his  eyes  bent  on  the  schedule, 
vainly  trying  to  make  out  the  sum  of  the  liabilities.  A  mist 
had  gathered  between  him  and  the  jDaper,  and  the  figures 
would  not  be  deciphered ;  but  at  this  remark  he  looked  up  and 
said,  "  No,  no,  'Squire  !     I'll  not  take  it." 

"  It's  your  due  ;  you  have  earned  it,  and  more." 

"  No,  'Squire,  I've  h^d  my  due.  I  should  despise  myself 
if  I  took  advantage  of  the  good  feeling  of  a  man  who  is  — 
who  is  crushed  as  you  are." 

The  'Squire's  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  and  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  twitched  nervously,  as,  grasping  the  Scotchman 
suddenly  by  the  hand,  and  wringing  it  violently,  he  said, 
"  Jordan,  among  all  the  men  and  women  I  ever  knew,  you 
are  the  only  one  who  has  been  true  to  me.  I  thought  you 
merely  honest ;  but  by ,  you've  a  soul  in  you." 


T  11  K     SHADOWS     U  F     CO  M  I  N  O      K  \'  E  N  T  S  . 


35 


Jordan,  rising  to  his  full  height,  took  a  step  or  two  back- 
ward, and  said,  solemnly,  ''  'Squire,  the  hand  of  God  is  on 
you,  —  in  love  it's  on  you.     Speak  not  lightly  of  the  Great 

Father!" 

The  other  also  rose  and  paced  the  room  for  a  while,  saying 
nothing.  Then  he  came  to  Jordan,  put  his  arm  about  his 
neck,  and  his  head  on  his  shoulder;  and  then,— the  strong 
man  wept  bitterly.  For  many  minutes  they  stood  thus, 
neither  of  them  speaking.  Then  Jordan  said,  and  his  voice 
sounded  like  a  woman's,  —  "  He  answers  prayer.     Let  us  pray 

to  Him."' 

Long  he  prayed,  wrestling  with  God,  as  Jacob  wrestled 
with  the  angel ;  and  when  they  rose  from  their  knees  the 
'Squire  was  another  man.  The  clouds  had  broken  away 
about  him,  and  into  his  soul  had  come  a  ray  of  the  ineffable 
light  that  streams  down  from  the  Infinite.  An  hour  after- 
ward he  had  left  the  plantation. 

A  fortnight  later,  a  gentleman  came  to  the  mansion,  with  a 
note  from  Weddington,  which  directed  that  the  child  — 
Jackson  —  and  his  nurse,  should  be  sent  to  Lexington,  to  the 
sister  of  the  child's  mother. 

Then  another  fortnight  went  away.  Mrs.  Weddington  had 
been  a  month  dead,  and,  it  was  thought,  quietly  sleeping  in 
the  little  graveyard  at  the  rear  of  the  mansion ;  but  soon  it 
began  to  be  whispered  about  that  some  of  the  negroes,  out 
after  hours,  had  seen  her,  draped  in  a  long  black  robe,  and 
walking  the  lonely  cemetery  by  moonlight. 

The  rumor  at  last  reached  the  ears  of  Jordan.  Though  a 
Scotchman,  he  had  no  faith  in  ghosts,  and  concluding  that  it 
was  the  'Squire,  returned,  and  venting  his  grief  in  secret  at 


36  O  N     T  II  E     B  O  R  D  E  K  . 

the  grave  of  his  wife,  he  determined  to  exj^lore  the  mys- 
tery. 

He  went  there  one  midnight.  When  he  came  back  his 
face  was  ghastly  pale ;  but  to  his  startled  wife  he  only  said, 
"  It  is  a  spirit,  Ruth,  —  an  evil  spirit ;  but  not  that  of  the 
mistress."  Of  old  it  was  thought  that  a  saint  could  lay  the 
worst  demon  in  creation.  Beyond  a  doubt  this  is  true ; 
for  Jordan  was  a  saint,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  laid  this 
ghost  so  effectually  that  it  was  never  seen  or  heard  of  after- 
ward. 

Not  many  months  later  the  'Squire  returned  to  the  planta- 
tion, —  another  man,  truly.  His  form  was  wasted,  liis  face 
wrinkled,  his  black  hair  turned  to  an  iron-gray ;  twenty  years 
seemed  to  have  gone  over  him.  He  went  into  the  roojn 
where  Jordan  was  alone,  and,  sitting  down  near  him,  said, 
"John,  I've  come  back  to  die  with  you." 

That  night  he  went  upstairs  to  sleep  in  his  own  apartment, 
■ —  the  one  adjoining  that  of  the  dead  woman,  —  but  in  the 
morning  Jordan,  rising  before  daybreak,  found  him  lying  on  a 
sofa  in  the  library. 

"  I  can't  sleep  in  this  house,"  he  said  ;  "  there  is  something 
in  its  air  that  stifles  me." 

In  this  enlightened  age  no  one  believes  that  the  dead  re- 
visit their  earthly  abodes ;  but  may  not  some  of  that  sj^iritual 
emanation  which  goes  out  from  the  human  soul  linger  behind 
them,  and  fill  the  homes  they  have  left  with  a  portion,  as  it 
were,  of  their  living  presence  ? 

The  next  night  they  made  the  'Squire  a  bed  in  Jordan's 
cabin,  and  soon  afterward  built  for  him  the  little  room  under 
the  rear  veranda,  which  has  been  already  mentioned.     Jor- 


T  H  K     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  37 

dan  tlien  went  back  to  his  home,  and  the  mansion  was  closed, 
never  again  to  be  opened  during  the  'Squire's  lifetime. 

His  life  after  this  was  sad,  and  yet,  somehow,  it  was  beau- 
tiful. He  seemed  to  have  begun  the  world  anew,  and  to  be 
living  over  again  his  childhood.  The  young  heir  to  so  much 
Scotch  royalty  —  now  a  bright  lad  of  about  six  years  —  be- 
came, day  and  night,  his  constant  companion.  In  pleasant 
weather,  the  two  would  roam  the  old  woods,  sit  together  un- 
der the  great  tree  in  the  little  court-yard,  or  wander  along  the 
margin  of  the  narrow  stream,  writing  strange  stories  in  the 
sand,  or  singing  the  wild  songs  which  the  'Squire  had  learned 
from  his  old  nurse,  who  came  from  Africa.  Once  in  a  while 
the  negroes  would  come  upon  them  kneeling  in  some  shady 
place,  their  hands  clasped  together,  and  they  talking  to  God 
as  if  he  were  a  father  to  such  little  children.  Then  the  poor 
slaves  would  go  away  with  wet  eyes,  and  say  to  one  another, 
"  Pore,  pore  massa !  " 

In  winter  they  would  build  great  houses  in  the  snow,  and, 
feigning  they  were  old  Scottish  castles,  would  arm  themselves 
with  pine  claymores,  and  have  long  combats  before  them  ; 
and  the  woods  would  ring  again  with  the  boy's  shouts  when 
the  man,  after  a  hard  fight,  would  fall  mortally  wounded. 
Then  the  boy,  covering  the  man  up  in  the  snow,  would  play 
he  was  dead  and  buried,  and  preach  over  him  a  funeral  ser- 
mon. 

And  so  two  summers  and  winters  went  away,  —  this  once 
strong,  proud  man,  living  over  again  his  childhood. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  toward  the  close  of  the  second  sum- 
mer, they  went  together  to  a  little  nook  they  had  fashioned  in 
the  wood,  near  the  little  streamlet.     Here  they  sat  down,  and 

4 


So  ONTHEBORDER. 

the  man  WTote  in  the  sand  some  of  his  strange  stories.  As 
fast  as  one  was  wTitten  the  boy  would  rub  it  out,  and  the  man 
would  write  another  ;  but  at  last  he  wrote  one  shorter  than  the 
rest,  and  when  it  was  done,  said,  — 

"  Don't  rub  this  out,  Johnny.  Let  it  stay  till  to-morrow 
I'm  tired  now.     Come,  let  us  take  a  nap  in  the  wngwam." 

It  was  a  little  nook  between  two  spreading  trees,  and  two 
summers  before  they  had  planted  Virginia  creepers,  so  as  to 
make  of  it  a  natural  arbor.  Its  floor  was  carpeted  with  the 
long  leaves  of  the  pine,  and  on  these  leaves  they  lay  down 
beside  each  other,  and  fell  into  quiet  slumbers.  After  awhile 
the  boy  woke,  and  moving  quietly  away,  so  as  not  to  wake  the 
man,  sat  down  on  the  ground  near  him.  His  face  was  pale, 
—  very  pale  ;  but  a  smile  was  on  it,  gentle  and  sweet  as  the 
earliest  dream  of  childhood.  Tiring  of  this  at  last,  the  boy 
rose,  and  went  out  to  the  bank  of  the  little  streamlet.  He 
sat  down  there,  and  read  over  again  the  legend  the  man  had 
written  in  the  sand. 

"  The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say.  Come.  And  let  him  that 
heareth  say,  Come.  And  whosoever  will,  oh  !  let  him  freely 
come,  and  freely  drink  the  stream  of  life,  —  'tis  Jesus  bids 
him  come." 

"  I  wonder  what  this  means  ?  How  queer  uncle  is  !  "  said 
the  boy,  taking  up  a  pebble,  and  casting  it  into  the  stream. 
It  sank  almost  noiselessly  into  the  still  water ;  but  the  tiny 
waves  it  raised  circled  round,  growing  wider  and  wider,  and 
dying  away  only  at  the  very  edge  of  the  streamlet. 

"  Uncle  says  that  when  a  good  man  dies,  he  leaves  just  such 
waves  behind  him,"  said  the  boy  again,  thinking  aloud,  and 
throwing   another  stone  into  the  water,     ^'l  mean    to  be  a 


THE     S  II  A  I)  O  \V  ?j     OK     COMIN(;     EVENTS.  39 

good  man,  and  then,  maybe,  when  I  die  I  shall  raise  bigger 
waves  than  these,  —  as  big  as  a  great  rock  going  down  in  a 
great  river." 

So  the  boy  sat  there,  throwing  stones  into  the  water,  until 
the  sun  began  to  sink  below  the  trees  which  fringed  the  oppo- 
site mountain.  Then  he  rose,  and  saying,  "  It's  time  we  were 
home,  I  must  wake  uncle,"-' he  went  into  the  little  wigwam. 

He  shook  the  man  by  the  shoulder,  but  he  did  not  awaken. 
He  was  usually  roused  by  the  slightest  touch ;  but  now  the 
boy  shook  him  again  and  again,  crying  out,  "  Uncle !  uncle  ! 
wake  up !  wake  up  I  Mother'll  scold  if  we're  out  after  sun- 
down ; "  but  still  he  did  not  awaken.  At  last  a  strange  fear 
came  over  the  boy,  and  he  ran  to  the  cabin  for  his  father. 

The  two  came,  and,  kneeling  down  by  the  side  of  the  'Squire, 
Jordan  put  his  finger  upon  his  wrist.  His  pidse  was  still. 
Then  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  side.  His  heart  had  ceased 
beating. 

Among  the  'Squire's  papers  was  found  a  will,  which  had  been 
executed  when  he  was  away  on  his  last  journey.  It  was  brief, 
and  read  as  follows  : 

"  Know  all  men  by  these  presents.  That  I,  Richard  Wed- 
dington,  of  the  county  of  Johnson,  and  State  of  Kentucky, 
gentleman,  being  of  sound  and  disposing  mind  and  memory, 
do  make  and  publish  this,  my  only  will  and  testament. 

"  First,  I  hereby  appoint  my  fi-iend,  John  Jordan,  to  be  my 
sole  executor. 

"  Second,  I  direct  that  the  mansion-house  on  my  plantation, 
with  its  furniture,  and  one  hundred  acres  of  contiguous  land, 
shall  be  sold  at  public  auction  as  soon  as  may  be  after  my 
death,  and  that  the  proceeds    shall  be  appropriated   by  the 


40  ONTHEBORDER. 

said  Jordan,  to  settling  in  some  free  State  such  a  number  of 
mj  slaves,  not  exceeding  fifty,  as  he  may  deem  fit  for  fi-ee- 
dom. 

"  Third,  I  give  and  devise  to  the  son  of  the  said  Jordan,  who 
is  also  named  John,  three  bonds  of  the  State  of  Kentuckj-, 
numbered  respectively  11,718,  11,719,  11,720,  which  are  con- 
tained in  my  safe  at  the  mansion.  Said  bonds  to  be  held  in 
trust  by  the  boy's  father  till  he  shall  be  of  age,  and  to  become 
the  property  of  his  mother  in  case  the  boy  should  die  before 
attaining  his  majority. 

'^  Fourth,  I  give  and  devise  to  the  said  John  Jordan  the 
gold  watch  and  chain  which  I  wear,  and  which  were  given  me 
by  my  father,  and  I  request  that  he  will  wear  them  always. 
I  give  him  no  more.  What  I  owe  him  cannot  be  paid  with 
money. 

"The  residue  of  my  estate,  real  and  personal,  after  my 
debts  shall  be  paid,  I  bequeath  to  my  next  of  kin,  with  this 
condition,  that  all  the  said  residue  shall  remain  in  the  undis- 
turbed control  of  the  said  John  Jordan  until  the  first  day  of 
January,  1859. 

"  For  his  services,  under  this  will,  the  said  Jordan  is  to  re- 
ceive such  compensation  as,  to  him,  shall  seem  right  and 
reasonable." 

The  will  was  duly  signed  and  attested  according  to  the 
laws  of  Kentucky,  and,  within  a  fortnight,  Jordan  pre- 
sented it  to  the  proper  officer  for  probate.  Before  he  had 
entered  upon  his  duties  under  it,  or  his  grief  for  the  'Squire 
had  grown  cold,  just  after  noon,  one  September  day,  a  gentle- 
man rode  lip  to  his  cabin.  Jordan  was  seated  with  his  son 
under  the  great  maple  which  shaded  his  doorway,  and  a  va- 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMIX  O     K  \'  E  N  T  S  .  41 

cant  chair  was  beside  tliem.  The  stranger  dismounted,  tied 
his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  then  approaching  said,  "  Good- 
morning."  He  was  a  stout,  squarely-built  man,  with  dark 
sunken  eyes,  bushy  hair  and  beard,  and  heavy  eyebrows. 

Jordan,  rising,  answered,  "  Good-morning." 

"  My  name  is  Cecil,"  said  the  stranger,  "Judge  Cecil,  of 
Piketon." 

Jordan  recognized  the  name  as  that  of  the  leading  man  of 
the  district,  —  the  politician  who  had  stepped  into  the  shoes  of 
Weddington. 

''  I  have  heard  of  you,"  said  Jordan,  whose  manner  to  the 
stranger  was  something  like  that  of  an  iceberg  to  a  befogged 
mariner. 

''  I  have  business  with  you.  I  have  ridden  far.  I  will  take 
a  seat,"  said  Cecil,  advancing  a  step  or  two,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  the  vacant  chair. 

"  Not  this !  not  this  ! "  cried  the  boy,  springing  up  and 
clutching  the  chair  in  absolute  terror.     "  This  is  uncle's  !  " 

The  stranger  looked  astonished,  and  Jordan,  brought  to  a 
sense  of  common  courtesy,  said,  "  Excuse  the  boy ;  this  is 
the  'Squire's  chair.  He  sat  in  it,  under  this  tree,  every  pleas- 
ant day  until  he  died." 

"  [N'ever  mind,  never  mind ;  no  apologies  are  needed,"  said 
Cecil ;  to  whom  the  emotion  of  the  lad  was  as  much  of  a  mys- 
tery as  the  origin  of  the  Pyramids. 

Jordan  bade  his  son  bring  a  chair  from  the  cabin,  and  then 
the  stranger  sat  down  beside  them. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  you,  Mr.  Jordan,"  he  said,  "  about 
that  will  of  'Squire  Weddington's.  It  is  a  singular  docu- 
ment." 

4* 


42  ONTHEBORDER. 

"It  is  singular/'  answered  Jordan.  -^'It  surprised  me 
greatly." 

"  It  makes  no  provision  for  the  education  of  his  son.  It 
does  not  even  mention  him,"  said  Cecil. 

"  No,  it  does  not.  It  speaks  of  his  next  of  kin,"  said  Jor- 
dan. 

"  It  throws  away  one-half  of  his  property,  and  gives  you 
undisturbed  control  of  the  remainder  for  eighteen  years,  al- 
lowing you  to  fix  your  own  compensation,"  said  Cecil. 
"  Why,  sir  !  in  that  time  your  charges  might  swallow  up  the 
whole  estate ! " 

Jordan  looked  at  the  other  for  a  moment,  his  cold  gray  eye 
glittering  with  a  sort  of  spiritual  phosphoresence.  Then  he 
said,  — 

"  Come  to  the  point,  sir  !     Let  me  know  your  business." 

The  lawyer  was  taken  somewhat  aback  by  the  bluntness  of 
this  addi'ess,  but  he  answered  coolly,  — 

"Very  well,  I  will.  I  represent  the  relatives  of  Mrs. 
Weddington.  The  'Squire  was  imbecile,  —  that  is  notorious. 
He  has  robbed  his  only  son  of  one-half  of  his  property.  If 
you  press  it  to  probate  we  shall  contest  the  will." 

"  That  would  be  expensive,"  answered  Jordan,  "  and  it 
would  be  a  quarrel  over  a  dead  man's  grave." 

"  It  need  not  be  a  quarrel,  unless  you  insist  that  the  will 
shall  go  to  probate,"  said  Cecil.  "I  am  authorized  to  offer 
you  satisfactory  terms." 

"I  understand  you,  sir,"  answered  Jordan,  very  delib- 
erately, looking  at  the  other  with  his  cold,  phosphorescent 
eye.  "  I  feel  interested  in  the  execution  of  the  will  for  only 
three   reasons  :     Eirst,  it  is  the  wiU  of  the  'Squire,  —  made 


THE     S  II  A  1)  O  W  S     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  4:1.^ 

when  ho  was  as  sane  as  I  am  ;  and  I  would  see  his  wishes 
carried  out.  Second,  it  will  enable  me  to  educate  my  son  for 
the  ministry,  —  and  his  ancestors  have  been  ministers  for 
more  than  two  hundred  years  ;  and,  third,  it  provides  for  the 
freedom  of  fifty  men  and  women,  who  are  as  fit  for  it  as  I,  or, 
—  you  are,  sir." 

This  remark  was  placing  a  white  man,  whose  pedigree 
went  back,  it  may  be,  to  the  time  of  Adam,  —  or  Cain,  —  on 
a  par  with  vermin  littered  only  yesterday  in  a  kennel ;  but 
the  judge  did  not  perceive,  or  did  not  choose  to  notice,  the 
implied  insult.     He  replied,  eagerly,  — 

"  I  see,  I  see  !  You  can  be  satisfied,  Mr.  Jordan.  We  will 
allow  you  the  three  bonds  for  your  son,  and  five  thousand  dol- 
lars for  yourself ;  and,  if  you  choose,  let  you  manage  the  estate 
till  the  boy,  Jackson,  comes  of  age." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  about  the  fifty  slaves  that  the  will 
liberates  ?  "  asked  Jordan. 

"  Why,  let  them  remain  as  they  are ;  they  do  not  want 
their  freedom." 

"  About  that,  sir,  I  am  a  better  judge  than  you,"  answered 
Jordan,  speaking  quickly,  and  again  looking  at  the  lawyer, 
his  eyes  now  blazing  like  firebrands,  or.  rather  like  jets  of 
white  flame.  "  Your  proposition  is  an  insult,  sir,  and  allow 
me  to  tell  you,  that  you  are  a  scoundrel." 

The  judge  bounded  to  his  feet  as  if  struck  by  a  rifle-bullet. 
His  face  flushed,  and  his  eyes  flashed  as  he  said,  "  What  do 
you  say  ?     Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  answered  Jordan,  without  moving  a  muscle, 
or  rising  from  his  seat.  "  I've  heard  of  you.  You  are  a 
man  who  lives  by  sucking  the  veins  of  dead  men,  —  a  ghoul, 


44  ONTHEBORDER. 

we  should  call  you  in  Scotland.  But  I  always  deal  with  the 
devil  fairly.  Sit  down,  sir,  and  I'll  tell  you  something  you 
don't  know.     Johnny,  go  into  the  house." 

The  boy  went  into  the  cabin,  and  Cecil,  as  if  moved  by 
some  mechanical  force,  took  the  vacant  chair  by  the  side  of 
Jordan.  What  passed  between  the  two  is  not  known ; 
but  in  ten  minutes  the  judge  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
away,  his  face  overcast  with  something  strongly  resembling  a 
thunder-cloud. 

The  threat  to  contest  the  will  made  Jordan  ner^^ously 
anxious  to  effect  the  sale  of  the  mansion,  —  that  being  a  nec- 
essary preliminary  to  the  manumission  of  the  negroes.  He 
pressed  forward  the  legal  proceedings,  and,  at  last,  the  auc- 
tion took  place  one  cloudy  day  in  October.  The  house  and 
furniture  were  put  up  separately ;  but  both  went  to  one  pur- 
chaser, —  the  dark,  silent  man  whose  shadow  had  already 
darkened  the  doorway  of  Weddington.  Together  they 
brought  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 

Directly  after  the  sale  Irving  approached  Jordan. 

"  I  understood  the  auctioneer  to  say,"  he  said,  "  that  the 
purchaser  would  ha^e  the  right  to  select  any  one  hundred 
acres  lying  contiguous  to  the  mansion." 

"  That  is  what  the  auctioneer  said,  sir." 

"  I  will  then,  if  you  please,  have  the  north  line  run  to  a 
point  beyond  the  cedar  grove,  in  the  rear  of  the  mansion ;  and 
the  east  line  on  a  course- parallel  with  the  middle  of  the  high- 
way." 

"  It  will  be  done  as  you  say,  sir,"  answered  Jordan  ;  "  but  I 
tell  you,  frankly,  you  will  get  some  of  the  poorest  land  on  the 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     COMING     EVENTS.  45 

plantation.     The  soil  at  the  south  of  the   road   is   far  bet- 


ter. 


"  I  prefer  the  north  side  ;  it  is  more  heavily  timbered." 
"  But  the  hne  run  precisely  as  you  direct,  would  include  the 
family  cemetery.     That,  of  course,  you    do   not   want,"   said 

Jordan. 

"  I   do,    sir,"  answered   the   other,   quickly ;    "  I   prefer   a 

square  plat  of  ground." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  at  this  moment,  and  said 
something  which  was  Greek  to  the  bystanders. 

"You  will,  at  least,  aUow  me  to  remove  the  bodies  of  the 
dead,"  said  Jordan,  his  breath  grating  against  his  teeth. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Irving,  ''the  bones  of  Mr.  Wedding- 
tx)n."  And  then  he  added  quickly,  as  if  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, "  When  will  the  deed  be  ready  ?  " 

"By  to-morrow  noon, -that  is,  if  you  wiU  take  my  meas- 
Tirement.     I  am  a  professional  surveyor." 

"  It  will  be  satisfactory.  I  will  wait  for  it.  You  will  al- 
low me  a  bed  to-night  at  the  mansion?" 

«I_I  — am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  sir,"  stammered 
Jordan ;  "  but  I  prefer  to  keep  possession  until  the  papers 
have  passed  between  us." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  answered  Irving,  without  the  slightest 
sign  of  vexation.     "  I  will  be  here  at  twelve  to-morrow." 

Mounting  his  horse,  he  then  rode  away, -twelve  miles 
for  a  night's  lodging. 

The  papers  were  passed  on  the  following  no'on,  and  Irving 
took  the  key  of  the  mansion.  He  remained  shut  up  in  the 
house  during  the  day,  but,  soon  after  dark,  was  seen  walking 
moodily  along  thd  northern  boundary  of  his  hundred  acres. 


46  ONTHE     BORDER. 

In  the  morning  he  was  gone,  no  one  knew  whither.  A  fort- 
night later  he  returned  with  his  wife,  the  man  Ezekiel,  and 
an  old  negress  who  bore  a  young  infant  in  her  arms,  and 
took  possession  of  the  mansion. 

Jordan,  knowing  that  Ezekiel's  return  would  be  the  signal 
for  great  rejoicing  among  the  negroes,  decided  to  give  them 
a  general  holiday  on  the  occasion.  As  soon  as  he  arrived, 
therefore,  he  called  them  together,  and  told  them  they  were 
free  the  rest  of  the  day,  except  for  an  hour  after  dark,  when 
they  would  meet  him  at  the  little  meeting-house. 

"  Leff  de  preachin'  gwo  for  to-day,  massa,"  said  one  of  the 
more  bold  of  the  negroes. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  answered  Jordan ; 
"  but  I'm  not  going  to  preach.  I  give  you  preaching  enough 
on  Sundays." 

This  was  probably  true.  Since  the  sale  of  Ezekiel,  he  had 
conducted  their  religious  services,  and  no  doubt  had  given 
them  quite  as  much  Calvinism  as  they  were  able  to  bear. 

The  morning  was  a  time  of  general  jollification,  but  in 
the  evening  the  negroes  gathered  together  at  the  little  church 
in  the  forest.  They  had  an  indefinite  notion  that  something 
good  was  coming ;  for,  though  the  fact  that  freedom  had  been 
given  to  a  portion  had  been  carefully  kept  from  them,  it  had 
got  whispered  about  that  the  'Squire  had  mentioned  them  in 
his  will.  They  were,  therefore,  wofully  disappointed  when, 
on  assembling,  they  found  nothing  to  eat  or  drink  in  the 
whole  church,  —  nothing  but  a  big  Bible,  two  rows  of  hard 
benches,  and  a  couple  of  flaming  pine  torches,  which  were 
throwing  a  dim  light  around  the  dismal  building. 

Ezekiel  opened  the  meeting  with  prayer,  and  then  Jordan 


THE  SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.     47 

advanced  to  the  front  of  the  platform,  on  which  stood  the 
rude  pulpit,  and  addressed  the  negroes.  He  spoke  of  his 
long  connection  with  them,  of  their  cheerful  obedience,  and 
general  good  conduct,  and  of  the  mournful  pleasure  it  had 
given  him  to  witness  their  sincere  grief  for  the  death  of 
their  master.  That  master,  had  he  lived  and  recovered  his 
faculties,  would  have  filled  their  lives  with  so  many  blessings 
that  they  would  have  desired  nothing,  not  even  freedom  ; 
but  though  he  was  dead,  he  had  not  forgotten  them.  He 
had  so  provided  by  his  will,  that  none  of  them  could  be 
sold  away  from  the  plantation,  —  at  least  not  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  —  and  to  fifty  had  given  freedom,  and  enough 
to  begin  life  in  a  free  country. 

Here  Jordan  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  that  shook  the 
rude  building,  and  echoed  through  the  dense  woods  like  the 
noise  of  a  waterfall.  It  was  long  before  the  uproar  subsided, 
and  when  it  did,  one  after  another  began  to  cry  out,  "  Am  it 
me,  Massa  Jordan  ?     Am  it  me  ?  " 

"  Be  as  quiet  as  you  can,"  said  Jordan  ;  "  I  don't  expect  you 
to  be  altogether  quiet ;  but  be  as  quiet  as  you  can." 

When  order  was  somewhat  restored,  he  went  on  to  say,  that 
the  'Squire  had  left  to  him  the  selection  of  the  fifty  who  should 
receive  freedom ;  that  making  the  selection  had  been  the 
most  difficult  duty  of  his  life ;  but  he  had  devoted  to  it 
much  thought  and  prayer,  and  had  at  last  the  manumission 
papers  ready  for  delivery.  He  had  been  guided,  he  said,  by 
a  desire  not  to  separate  families,  and  not  to  throw  upon  their 
own  resources  those  not  in  every  way  able  to  provide  for 
themselves.  And  he  said  that  those  who  remained  must  not 
think  he  considered  them   unworthy  of  freedom.     He  only 


48  ONTHEBORDER. 

thouglit  they  needed  his  care  more  than  the  others,  and  his 
care  they  should  have  ;  for,  if  his  life  were  spared,  he  should 
remain  among  them  until  the  time  fixed  by  the  ^Squire  for  the 
passing  of  the  estate  into  the  hands  of  his  kindred.  Finally, 
he  told  them,  he  desired  those  who  were  freed  to  prepare 
for  removal  as  soon  as  they  could,  for  there  had  been  some 
threats  of  an  attempt  to  break  the  will.  Hence  he  had 
pressed  forward  the  sale  of  the  mansion,  and  now  wanted  to 
see  them,  as  soon  as  possible,  in  a  Free  State,  where  they 
would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  all  the  lawyers,  and  all  the 
courts,  in  Kentucky. 

Then,  one  by  one,  he  called  over  the  names  of  the  freed 
negroes ;  and  one  by  one,  as  the  roll  was  called,  they  came  up 
to  the  platform,  and  received  their  manumission  papers,  while 
a  stillness,  like  that  of  death,  reigned  throughout  the  rude 
building.  A  half  dozen  had  received  the  "  charter  of  lib- 
erty," and  returned  to  their  seats,  when  a  tall,  stalwart  man, 
coal-black,  and  of  about  middle  age,  came  forward.  He  held 
out  his  hand  hesitatingly  at  first,  but  suddenly  withdrew  it, 
saying,  "  No,  no,  massa,  I  don't  want  to  leab  you."  Turning 
then  to  the  assemblage,  he  added,  "  And  I  tell  you,  all  you 
brack  folks,  you  wont  neber  agin  be  nigh  so  well  off  away  up 
Norf  dar.  You'll  git  froze  to  death ;  and  dar  haint  anoder 
such  a  massa  as  Massa  Jordan  in  all  dis  worle,  —  not  in  all 
dis  worle." 

At  once  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  a  confused  murmur  of 
voices  arose,  saying,  "  Dat's  a  fac' ;  "  "I  don't  want  no  free- 
dom ; "  "I  wont  leab  Massa  Jordan,  nohow  ;  "  and  one  woman, 
who  had  already  received  a  paper,  came  tremblingly  forward 
with  it  in  her  hand. 


T  H  K     SHADOWS     OF     C  O  M  I  N  (i     EVENTS.  49 

Jordan  was  visibly  affected,  but  rising  to  his  feet  he  said, 
"  You  are  wrong,  —  you  are  not  to  be  turned  upon  the  world 
empty-handed.  You  are  to  have  all  that  the  mansion  has  sold 
for,  and  that  divided  among  you  will  be  two  hundi'ed  dollars 
for  every  one  who  is  freed.  I  advise  you  to  take  your  free- 
dom. I  will  go  to  a  Free  State  with  you,  and  try  to  settle 
you  comfortably." 

Then  again  a  confused  murmur  ran  through  the  house  ;  but 
now  the  voices  said,  "  We  will  go  ; "  "  We'll  do  what  Massa 
Jordan  say." 

There  was  no  further  interruption,  and  soon  all  the  papers 
were  distributed.  Then  Jordan,  saying  "Good-night  to  all 
of  you,"  left  the  building. 

But  the  negroes  remained.  That  number  of  white  men 
awarded  so  priceless  a  boon,  might  have  made  night  hideous 
with  wild  shouts  and  drunken  revelry;  but  these  simple 
souls,  knowing  no  better,  went  upon  their  knees,  and,  until  far 
into  the  night,  sent  up,  from  overflowing  hearts,  grateful 
songs  and  thanksgivings  to  the  Great  Father,  who  so  tenderly 
cares  for  the  meanest  of  his  earthly  children. 


The  negroes  had  dispersed  to  their  several  homes,  and  it 
was  the  dark  hour  which  always  precedes  the  morning,  when 
Jordan's  wife  awoke  him  by  crying  oyt,  "  John !  John  !  See  ! 
That  great  light  down  in  the  valley  ! " 

Springing  hastily  out  of  bed,  Jordan  went  to  the  window  ; 
and,  as  he  began  to  hurriedly  throw  on  his  clotheS,  said, 
"  Don't  be  frightened,  Ruth.     The  mansion  is  on  fire." 

When  he  reached  the  scene,  the  flames  were  climbing  the 
roof,  and  rising,  in  lurid  jets,  far  above  the  tall  chimneys  of 

5 


DO  O  N     T  H  K     B  O  K  D  E  K  . 

the  great  building.  Nothing  could  be  done.  The  house  was 
already  beyond  saving. 

A  hundred  negroes  were  standing  about  in  frightened 
groups,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  before  the  fire,  his  head  bent 
down,  his  face  ghastly  white,  w^as  the  man,  Irving.  Jordan 
went  directly  up  to  him. 

"  Your  wife  and  child,"  he  said,  —  "  are  they  safe  ?  " 

He  looked  vacantly  at  Jordan  for  a  moment,  then,  without 
speaking,  resumed  his  walk  in  front  of  the  burning  build- 
ing. 

At  this  moment  the  negro,  Ezekiel,  emerged  from  the  rear 
of  the  mansion,  and  came  toward  Jordan. 

"  Are  they  safe  ?  "  asked  the  white  man,  eagerly,  —  "  the 
mistress  and  the  child  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yas,  massa,  —  safe.     Dey's  safe  in  one  ob  de  cabins." 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  asked  Jordan. 

"  'Taint  'zackly  clar,  massa,"  answered  the  negro,  "  but  I 
reckon  'twas  dis  away.  Ye  sees,  I  leif  de  church  long  ter  de 
mornin',  and,  comin'  yere,  seed  the  flames  a  bustin'  out  ob  de 
back  winders.  I  run  in  and  woke  massa  and  missus,  and  den 
got  out  de  old  nuss  and  little  Eachel.  But  I  wan't  a  minnit 
too  soon,  fur  de  fire  was  a  blazin'  in  de  hall,  and  I  hed  to  leff 
'em  down  fru  de  winder.  Massa  'peared  like  he  was  struck 
wid  de  palsy,  but,  wid  two  or  free  as  had  come,  I  went  ter 
wuck,  and  toted  out  a  few  cheers,  a  bed  or  two,  and  a  bureau  ; 
and  den  we  couldn't  ^YUck  no  more,  for  de  fire  was  all  ober  de 
mansion.  De  nuss,  she  say  she  leff  a  candle  a  burnin'  fur 
me  in  de  room  off  de  library.  She  sot  it  on  a  cane-cheer, 
and  it  was  a  yaller-dip,  so  I  reckon  it  cracked,  drapped  down, 
and  so  sot  de  cheer  a  fire  in  no  time.     What  would  de  poor 


THE     SHADOWS     OF     CO  M  I  N  G     E  V  K  N  T  S  .  51 

'Squar'  say  if  he  kiiowd  de  ole  house  war  sich  a  brack  ruina- 
tion as  it'll  be  to-morrer  ?  " 

"He  would  be  sorry, 'Zekiel, — the  more  sorry  if  he  had 
just  sold  it,  and  had  the  money,  as  I  have,"  answered  Jordan. 

He  stood  with  the  negro,  watching  the  flaming  rafters,  as 
one  by  one  they  fell  upon  the  blazing  pile  below,  when  Irving 
paused  in  his  hurried  walk,  and  came  toward  them.  His 
eyes  gave  out  a  strange  light,  as  if  his  soul  were  on  fire  with 
some  such  flame  as  that  which  was  devouring  his  dwelling. 

"  That  safe  ! "  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  —  "  all  I  have  in 
the  world  is  in  it !     Is  it  fire-proof  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  answered  Jordan.  "It  was  said  to  be  ; 
but  I  fear  it  is  not  to  be  trusted." 

Three  days  afterwards  the  safe  was  exhumed  from  the 
smoking  ruins,  and,  being  deluged  with  water,  was  finally 
opened.  A  handful  of  cinders  was  all  that  it  contained.  On 
these  cinders  this  man  had  built  a  life  of  ease,  and  with  them 
had  meant  to  laugh  at  destiny ! 


CHAPTER     III 


AFTER    TWENTY  YEARS. 


0]^CE  knew  a  man  who  set  about  building  a  house, 
and,  having  laid  the  foundation  and  put  up  the  frame- 
work, left  it  exposed,  like  a  ship  riding  at  anchor  un- 
der bare  poles,  to  the  wind  and  the  rain  for  half  a 
generation.  Like  the  man  in  the  Gospels,  he  began  to  build 
and  was  not  able  to  finish.  In  the  course  of  years,  however, 
he  did  add  here  and  there  a  joist,  and  nail  on  here  and 
there  a  weather-board ;  but  it  was  not  till  his  youngest  boy 
had  grown  to  be  a  man  that  the  skeleton-house  became  a 
finished  building.  Then,  to  the  merry  music  of  the  saw  and 
the  plane,  it  sprang  up  from  a  confused  heap  of  boards  and 
beams,  all  at  once,  as  if  by  enchantment. 

As  it  was  with  the  man's  house,  so  it  is  with  our  story. 
Having  laid  its  foundation,  and  set  up  its  framework,  we  are 
obliged  to  leave  it  in  the  wind  and  the  rain  for  twenty  years, 
adding  only  here  and  there  a  joist  or  a  weather-board.  Nobody 
has  died,  nobody  been  married,  and  the  great  world  has  been 
moving  round  just  as  if  none  of  its  characters  were  in  existence. 
And  yet  they  all  have  lived,  all  have  been  growing  older,  and, 
it  may  be,  wiser,  and  all  have  been  in  training  in  that  school 
of  silent  events  by  which  God  fits  every  man  to  act  his  part, 
great  or  small,  in  the  long  drama  of  the  centuries. 

(52) 


A  F  T  E  11      TWENTY     Y  11  A  U  S  .  63 

It  was  late  one  night  in  the  winter  of  1860,  when  a  man' 
was  slow!}"  wending  liis  way  along  the  narrow  road  which 
leads  from  the  site  of  the  burned  mansion,  to  the  little  cabin 
on  the  hill-side.  He  walked  with  a  shambling,  uncertain  step, 
as  if  lost  in  thought,  or  wearied  with  a  long  journey ;  but  he 
paused  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  little  clearing,  and 
looked  off  into  the  forest.  A  ruddy  light  was  streaming  from 
the  windows  of  the  cabin,  and  the  long  shadows  it  cast  on  the 
opposite  woods,  swayed  by  the  flickering  fire,  were  dancing 
about  among  the  trees,  as  ghosts  are  supposed  to  dance  about 
in  gravej^ards.  It  was  these  shadows,  or  the  thoughts  that 
they  awakened,  which  arrested  the  steps  of  the  man,  and 
made  him  —  sitting  down  on  the  low  fence  which  bordered 
the  clearing  —  look  again,  long  and  moodily,  off  into  the  for- 
est. "  How  strange  they  are  !  "  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to 
some  one  beside  him.  "  I  wonder  if  his  soul  is  at  rest,  or 
wandering,  like  them,  among  the  shadows  ?  " 

After  a  time  he  rose,  and,  with  a  steadier  tread,  ascended 
the  narrow  pathway  which  led  to  the  cottage.  Before  the 
window  he  paused  again,  and  looked  back  at  the  weird  crea- 
tures of  the  night  that  were  making  such  wild  revelry  in  the 
forest.  As  he  moved  between  them  and  the  fire-light,  they 
seemed,  for  a  moment,  to  dance  more  wildly,  and  then  to  steal 
up  the  hiU,  as  if  to  clutch  him  in  their  airy  arms  and  bear 
him  away  to  the  shadowy  realm  beyond  the  rivulet.  But  as 
he  turned  and  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin,  they  gave  up  the 
chase,  raced  again  down  the  hill,  and  began  again  their 
ghostly  minuet  in  the  valley. 

As  the  man  entered  the  room,  a  woman  rose  from  a  seat 
5* 


54  ONTHEBORDER. 

near  the  fire,  and  came  toward  the  door-way.  "  Ye  is  late, 
John,"  she  said.     "  It's  arter  two  in  the  mornin'." 

"  I  know,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  couldn't  come  sooner.  He 
is  dead." 

"  Dead  ! "  echoed  the  woman,  in  a  startled  way. 

"  Yes,  dead.  He  went  just  at  midnight,"  replied  the  man, 
standing  with  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door.  "  But  look 
there,  mother,  —  down  there  by  the  run  !  See  those  black 
things  a- dancing !  Don't  they  make  you  think  of  the  dark 
spirits  they  say  come  out  o'  nights  to  take  the  souls  of  bad 
men  down  to  the  under-world  ?  " 

"  Hush,  John ;  don't  ye  speak  so !  Them  is  only  the 
shadders  from  the  fire  through  the  winder." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  mother ;  but  to-night  they  seem  to  me 
living  things,  —  dark  spirits  who  have  taken  on  the  shadows 
so  our  eyes  may  see  them.  I  know  it  isn't  so  j  but  —  I  hope 
his  soul  isn't  among  them." 

"  Among  'em  !  Why,  John,  how  you  tork !  Israel  warn't 
a  bad  man,  —  he  never  done  nothin'  to  send  him  among  the 
dark  sperets." 

"Not  that  you  know,  mother;  not  that  you  know,"  an- 
swered the  man,  barring  the  door,  and  coming  forward  into  the 
fire-light ;  "  but  he's  told  me  things  to-night  that  have  froze 
my  blood  in  hearing." 

He  sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  the  blaze  of  the  burning  logs 
lit  up  his  features.  He  was  a  man  of  about  twenty-eight, 
with  a  tall,  gaunt,  somewhat  awkward  frame,  and  a  sallow, 
sun-browned  complexion.  He  had  large  hands  and  feet, 
long,  bony  arms,  and  shoulders  which,  though  square  and 
broad,  had  a   singular   stoop  that    almost    amounted   to    de- 


A  F  T  E  R     T  W  K  N  T  Y     T  E  A  R  S  .  55 

formity.  He  was  dressed  in  common  homespun,  and  wore  the 
shapeless  slouched  hat  which,  time  out  of  mind,  has  covered 
every  male  head  in  the  district ;  but,  when  he  lifted  this  un- 
couth head-gear  from  the  mass  of  soft,  jet-black  hair  which 
f^ll  in  wavy  folds  almost  to  his  shoulders,  he  disclosed  an 
open,  intensely  white  forehead,  thickly  interlaced  with  those 
fine  blue  lines  that  always  denote  a  mind  of  great  power 
and  sensibility.  With  his  hat*  on,  and,  as  he  usually  wore  it, 
slouched  down,  so  as  to  half  hide  his  face,  he  would  have 
passed  unnoticed  as  a  common  rustic ;  but  with  it  oif,  and  the 
light  falling  upon  his  broad  head,  expanded  and  flexible  nos- 
trils, wide  and  strong  jaws,  and  singularly  regular  and  hand- 
some features,  he  would  have  arrested  attention  anywhere  as 
a  man  of  no  ordinary  character.  Over  his  features  he  had 
a  strange  control ;  for,  as  he  sat  now  in  the  fire-light,  they 
wore  a  quiet,  dreamy  expression,  blended  with  a  certain  look 
of  trust  and  gentleness,  which  seemed  habitual  to  them  ;  and 
yet  a  wild,  white,  ghastly  light  came  out  of  his  great  gray 
eyes  that  drove  the  color  from  the  woman's  face,  and  made 
her  half-stagger  into  the  seat  beside  him. 

"  What  was  it,  John  ?  "  she  cried.     "  Was  it  murder  ?  " 

"Hush,  mother!"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  suddenly  on 
her  arm,  and  speaking  in  a  hoarse,  broken  whisper.  ^'  Where 
is  father  and  Kobin  ?  " 

"  Asleep  these  five  hours,"  she  answered,  in  the  same 
broken  whisper.  "No  'un  kin  yere  ye.  What  did  he  do, 
John?     Tell  me!" 

The  man  glanced  down  at  the  fire,  and  said  nothing  for  a 
few  moments  ;  then,  without  looking  up,  he  answered,  "  Noth- 
ing, mother,  —  nothing  that  can  be  told." 


56  ONTHEBORDER. 

"It  war  suthin',  John,  —  suthin'  dreadful ;  for  I  never  seed 
that  look  in  yer  eyes  afore.  And  yet  I  can't  b'lieve  Israel 
ever  done  ary  wrong,  —  he,  as  was  allers  so  quiet  and  so  pa- 
tient like,  in  all  the  trouble  as  was  ever  a  follerin'  him." 

"  The  trouble  was  the  fruit  of  his  crimes,"  said  the  man. 
"  The  Lord  has  so  fixed  the  order  of  things  that  even  dumb 
nature  works  against  the  wrong-doer.  I  never  thought  he 
put  any  special  sentence  upon  Cain.  It  was  the  spirit  of  his 
evil  deed  that  haunted  him,  and  made  him  a  wanderer  in  the 
world,  —  his  hand  against  every  man,  and  every  man's  hand 
against  him." 

"I  knows,  John,  I  knows;  but  ye's  allers  a  preachin'. 
What  was  it  ?  "  again  asked  the  woman,  in  a  tone  of  slight 
impatience,  and  drawing  her  chair  nearer  to  the  man's. 

This  was  the  same  woman  who,  twenty  years  before,  had 
seemed  not  to  know  how  to  ask  a  question  ;  but  now  she  ad- 
dressed her  son,  and  then  her  husband ;  and,  too,  the  dark, 
silent  man  of  whom  they  were  speaking,  had,  all  those  years, 
been  to  her  among  the  strangest  of  mysteries. 

"  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  mother,"  answered  the  man ;  "  it  would 
ease  my  mind  ;  but  I  can't.  It's  a  dead  man's  secret."  Then 
after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  It's  very  late.  You  ought  to  go  to 
bed  and  get  some  rest.     Kachel  will  need  you  to-morrow." 

He  turned  away,  and  looked  again  at  the  fire,  and  neither 
spoke  for  many  minutes.  While  they  are  thus  silent,  we  may 
as  well  glance  around  the  apartment. 

It  is  somewhat  larger  than  an  ordinary  sitting-room,  and  is 
evidently  the  best  apartment  in  the  cabin.  It  opens  by  one 
door  upon  the  covered  passage-way  already  mentioned;  by 
another  into  a  small  bedroom,  formed  by  inclosing  a  portion 


A  F  T  K  R      r  W  E  N  T  Y     Y  K  A  K  S  .  67 

of  the  rear  veranda ;  and  it  has  plastered  walls,  and  a 
tongued-and-grooved  ceiling,  through  which  project  the  naked 
beams  that  support  the  upper  story.  A  rag  carpet  covers  the 
floor,  except  in  front  of  the  fire-place,  which  is  deep  and  wide, 
and  surmounted  by  a  broad  mantle  of  unpainted  oak,  on 
which  a  Yankee  clock  is  ticking.  In  one  corner  stands  a 
spinning-jenny,  in  another  a  cushioned  settle,  and  opposite  the 
fireplace  is  a  large  bureau  of  natural  maple,  on  which  rests  an 
unpainted  violin,  evidently  of  home  manufacture.  Over 
against  the  door-way  is  a  small  table,  covered  witli  a  patch- 
work cloth,  and  holding  a  few  books,  among  which  are  the  Bi- 
ble, "  The  Course  of  Time,"  a  large  dictionary.  Watts'  Hymns, 
an  odd  volume  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  "  Heaven  and  Hell " 
of  Swedenborg.  These  books  are  all  well  worn,  as  if  handled 
by  a  whole  neighborhood,  or  often  read  by  some  one  individ- 
ual. The  latter,  however,  is  the  more  likely  supposition ;  for 
the  neighborhood  is  not  of  a  literary  turn  of  mind ;  and  this 
supposition  may  account  for  the  fact  that  the  young  man  em- 
ploys so  little  of  the  uncouth  dialect  of  the  region.  Long 
pondering  on  these  books  has  probably  made  their  language 
even  more  natural  and  familiar  to  him  than  the  rude  accents 
he  has  learned  from  the  lips  of  his  mother. 

A  half-dozen  chairs,  with  rustic  frames  and  deer-skin  cov- 
erings, arranged  somewhat  regularly  about  the  floor,  and  a 
few  other  articles  comprise  the  remaining  furniture  of  the 
apartment ;  but  among  these  other  articles  are  some  which,* 
more  than  anything  I  have  enumerated,  reveal  the  character 
of  the  man  who  has  been  speaking. 

•  They  are  several  paintings  in  oak  frames,  which  are  hang- 
ing on  the  walls.     They  are  coarsely  done  in  oil,  and  evident- 


58  O  N     T  II  i:     H  O  K  D  K  K  . 

ly  by  one  with  no  educated  knowledge  of  art ;  but  they  show 
a  natural  percej^tion  of  the  beautiful ;  and  one  is  a  picture 
that  would  arrest  the  attention  of  the  most  careless  observer. 
It  covers  the  whole  blank  space  over  the  bureau,  and  repre- 
sents several  mountain  ranges,  rising  one  above  another  in 
more  than  Alpine  grandeur.  In  the  foreground,  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains  is  a  broad,  arid  plain,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  little  oases,  which  are  watered  by  small  ri\Ti- 
lets,  and  thickly  covered  with  verdure.  On  these  oases  are 
vine-embowered  cottages,  around  which  groups  of  children 
are  playing,  and  men  and  women  are  gathered  in  little  knots, 
or  two  by  two  in  various  occupations.  Some  are  tilling  the 
ground,  some  felling  the  trees,  some  tending  the  flowers,  and 
others  looking  up  with  rapt  faces  at  the  high  mountain  sum- 
mits ;  but  all  are  engaged  in  some  act  of  work  or  devotion. 
They  are  of  graceful  form  and  comely  feature,  and  many  of 
them  bear  small  bunches  of  flowers  in  their  hands,  and  the 
bloom  on  their  hearts  seems  as  fresh  as  that  on  the  roses  they 
carry.  Their  clothing  is  mean  and  poor,  and  some  have 
scarcely  any  covering ;  but  the  rude  breath  of  spring,  and  the 
cold  wind  of  winter,  never  comes  to  them ;  for  these  are  they 
who  are  clothed  in  the  garments  of  salvation. 

Around  these  leafy  Ed  ens  is  a  difl'erent  landscape.  It  is  a 
broad,  arid  plain,  and  over  it  the  drifting  sand,  lifted  by  the 
fierce  simoon,  is  rising  in  dense  clouds  that  well-nigh  shut  out 
the  vision.  But  through  the  hazy  air  one  may  discern,  in 
dim  outlines,  the  dwellers  in  this  desert.  They  are  a  count- 
less multitude,  —  countless  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  —  and 
of  every  imaginable  shape  and  complexion  ;  but  all  have  some 
lineament  of  manhood.     Here,  with  the  form   of  a  man,  the 


AFTER     T  W  E  N  T  Y     Y  E  A  U  S  .  69 

face  of  a  lamb,  and  the  feet  of  a  bird  of  prey,  is  a  priest,  in 
white  robe  and  surplice  ;  yonder,  in  a  brass  mask,  with  a  huge 
boulder  for  a  heart,  is  a  judge,  arrayed  in  the  ermine ;  and 
about  in  various  places  are  divers  others,  —  a  king  in  rags 
and  tatters  ;  a  politician  kissing  the  feet  of  a  toper  ;  a  black- 
smith hammering  away  at  a  naked  heart ;  a  miser  sinking 
under  a  load  of  gold,  and  a  scholar  with  a  head  like  a  dried 
pumpkin,  and  bearing  the  significant  inscription  :  "  Lofts  to 
Let."  Every  character  has  its  peculiar  features.  Some  have 
the  faces  of  wolves,  of  panthers,  owls,  foxes  or  hyenas  ;  others 
the  claws  of  vultures,  and  the  bodies  of  all  manner  of  creep- 
ing things,  and  all  are  preying  and  making  war  on  one  other. 

But  the  most  striking  figures  are  directly  in  the  fore- 
ground. They  are  an  ape  in  a  dandy's  coat  and  trousers,  who 
is  dancing  and  grimacing  on  the  very  brink  of  an  abyss 
which  seems  unfathomable  ;  and  a  woman  with  a  serpent's 
body,  who  is  coiling  her  slimy  length  round  the  dandy's 
waist,  and  luring  him  down  the  precipice.  Down  this  abyss 
one  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  under-world,  into  which  no 
ray  of  light  enters,  and  where  sin  holds  its  high  carnival  for- 
ever. 

But  the  sand-clouded  air  clears  away  at  the  foot  of  the  first 
mountain,  and  there  various  figures  can  be  seen  climbing  a 
broken  and  rocky  ascent.  They  seem  weary  and  bent,  as 
with  some  great  life-burden ;  but  on  they  are  going  through 
the  briers  and  thistles  that  strew  the  steep  and  flinty  way ; 
and  as  they  go,  their  faces  lose  the  lineaments  of  beasts  and 
birds  of  prey,  and  take  on  those  of  a  radiant  manhood. 
Passing  in  and  out  among  them  are  shining  figures,  clad  in 
white,   who  are  guiding  the  weary  wayfiirers,    and   pointing 


60  o  X    T  II  i:    li  o  I J  I)  E  a  . 

them  to  the   sun-illumined   plateau    toward  which  they  are 
journeying. 

This  j)lateau  is  an  evergreen  land,  bathed  in  a  sunshine 
that  is  softened,  not  obscured,  by  the  misty  clouds  which  over- 
hang the  whole  lower  part  of  the  mountain.  It  is  like  the 
earth,  only  far  more  beautiful.  In  it  are  rolling  hills,  and 
running  streams,  and  verdant  plains,  and  waving  fields,  rich 
with  growing  grains,  and  fruitful  trees,  and  blooming  flowers. 
Around  are  cosey  cottages  and  gorgeous  palaces,  and  great 
cathedrals,  on  whose  spires  a  light  is  resting  that  seems  a 
glory  from  the  Infijiite.  The  scene  is  all  alive  with  singing- 
birds,  and  aU  overflowing  with  ethereal  beings,  floating  in  the 
dreamy  air,  or  resting  in  the  leafy  woods,  as  if  life  to  them 
were  only  one  long  day  of  joy  and  sunshine. 

Beyond  this  mountain  is  another,  sloping  up  through  ver- 
dant fields  and  flowery  meads ;  and  along  its  sides  are  moving 
figures,  clad  in  shining  robes,  and  resembling  the  angels  of 
the  old  painters.  They  are  aiding  the  toilers  from  below,  as 
these  are  aiding  the  pilgrims  from  the  desert-region.  Above 
this  mountain  another  rises  tlirough  the  mist,  until  three  in 
all  are  seen,  —  the  three  heavens,  it  may  be,  that  Paul  saw 
in  his  vision. 

But  the  striking  feature  of  all  the  striking  picture  is  at 
the  summit  of  the  loftiest  mountain.  There,  on  the  top- 
most peak,  beneath  the  great  sun  which  gives  light  and 
warmth  to  all  these  radiant  regions,  and  encircled  by  a  count- 
less throng,  who  are  kneeling,  as  if  in  adoration,  is  a  way- 
worn man,  laying  a  heavy  cross  upon  the  ground.  His  form 
is  wasted,  his  hands  and  feet  are  torn  and  bleeding,  and  on 
his  face  are  traces  of  an  infinite  ■  sorrow.     It  is  the  Man  of 


A  F  T  K  K      r  \V  E  N  T  Y     Y  E  A  H  <;  .  01 

Calvary.  Up  all  the  toilsome  way  he  has  borne  tlie  weary 
load,  and  now  he  is  laying  it  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Infi- 
nite, while  over  his  head  a  belt  of  stars,  new-created  to 
celebrate  the  hour,  are  with  their  new-born  rays  writing  on 
the  sky  :  "  This  is  my  Beloved  Son,  in  Whom  I  am  well 

PLEASED." 

A  singular  picture  this  to  be  found  in  a  wilderness,  and  a 
singular  man  must  he  be  whose  untutored  art  has  painted  so 
gorgeous  a  panorama  of  the  eternal  pilgrimage  !  What  un- 
seen hand  has  drawn  aside  for  him  the  veil  that  divides  this 
life  fi'om  the  other?  or  what  angel-voice  whispered  in  his 
soul  the  sublime  truth  that  the  Man  of  Calvary  bore  the 
cross  of  Self-Sacrifice  up  to  the  highest  heaven,  before  he 
received  the  homage  of  the  angels,  and  was  crowned  the 
"  Lord  of  All  ?  " 

But  the  woman  speaks,  and  we  will  turn  again  to  those 
two  who  are  seated  there  in  the  fire-light.  Her  eyes,  like 
the  man's,  have  been  bent  on  the  fire  ;  but  now  she  looks 
up  and  a  smile,  half  of  wonder,  half  of  doubt,  is  on  her  feat- 
ures. They  are  pleasant  features,  and  though  they  lack 
some  of  the  intellect,  and  all  of  the  dreamy  expression  which 
is  in  the  man's,  they  show  —  if  one's  life  may  be  shown  in 
one's  face  —  that  her  life  has  been  a  summer  day,  or  a  gen- 
tle stream,  rippling  down  through  quiet  ways,  and  singing  as 
it  goes  to  the  great,  ever-singing  ocean. 

"  But  John,"  she  said,  "  how  did  he  come  to  tell  ye  ?" 

"  He  sent  for  me  expressly  to  tell  me,"  he  answered,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair,  and  drawing  a  long  breath,  as  if 
speech  were  a  relief  to  the  thoughts  which  his  eyes  showed 
were  working  within    him.     "  When  I  went  thar,  just  after 


62  O  N     T  II  E     li  O  K  D  K  R  . 

dark,  Zeke  was  doing  up  his  evening  chores  at  the  barn.  I 
stopped  to  say  a  few  words  to  him,  M-hen  Eachel  came  run- 
ning out,  saying  her  father  wanted  me  to  come  at  once  into 
the  cabin.  She  said  he'd  seemed  better  during  the  day  than 
for  months  going ;  but,  when  I  went  into  the  room,  he  asked 
them  all  out,  and  told  me  that  he  was  dying.  I  thought  it 
couldn't  be  so ;  for  his  face  was  flushed,  and  his  voice  strong 
and  husky ;  but  I  asked  him  if  I  hadn't  better  call  back  his 
wife  and  daughter.  He  shook  his  head  and  said  :  ^  No,  no ! 
Not  yet !  Thar's  time  enough  for  that.  I  must  talk  to  you 
first.  I've  something  on  my  mind,  John,  that  I  must  tell  be- 
fore I  die  ;  and  I  can  tell  it  to  no  one  but  you,  —  for  I  can 
trust  no  one  but  you  never  to  use  it  against  Rachel  or  her 
mother.'  I  said  he  could  trust  me ;  and  then,  in  a  broken 
way,  stopping  often  for  breath,  and  for  more  strength  to  face 
the  terrible  thing,  he  told  me  the  story." 

Here  the  man  paused,  and  gazed  again  for  a  while  at  the 
fire,  and  the  woman  said :  "  It  must  have  been  dreadful, 
John  —  dreadful.  I  know  it  by  the  look  that's  in  yer  eyes 
this  minnit." 

"  It  was  dreadful,  mother,"  said  the  man,  looking  up,  and  a 
different  light  coming  into  his  great  gray  eyes.  It  must  have 
been  this  new  light  which  shut  from  his  view  the  hideous 
vision  that  seemed  rising  before  the  mind  of  the  woman,  —  as 
a  strong  blaze  will  illumine  a  room,  while  a  weaker  flame  will 
only  fiU  it  with  gloomy  shadows.  At  any  rate,  he  went  on  : 
"  It  was  dreadful,  —  too  dreadful  for  you  to  hear,  or  for  me  to 
tell.  It  showed  me  the  real  nature  of  evil.  Evil  is  like 
fire,  mother,  —  a  good  thing  if  kept  under,  but,  allowed  to  get 
the  mastery,  a  very  devil  of  destruction." 


AFTER     T  ^^'  K  N  T  Y     Y  E  A  R  S  .  63 

"  Why,  John  !  How  kin  ye  say  so  ?  How  kin  ye  call  evil 
good?"      - 

"  It  isn't  good  in  itself,  —  it's  only  good  in  its  way.  It  is 
useful,  and,  it  may  be,  necessary  for  our  development.  If  it 
was  not,  it  wouldn't  exist ;  for  God  would  allow  nothing  to  be 
that  was  not  for  the  final  happiness  of  his  creatures.  This  al- 
ways puzzled  me,  — how  God,  who  is  all  goodness,  could  permit 
evil,  —  until  one  day  when  I  was  down  at  the  village,  before 
the  new  court-house  was  finished.  I  had  heard  it  was  to  be 
the  finest  building  in  all  Kentucky  5  and  I  went  to  see  it.  It 
was  only  half-way  up ;  all  about  it  was  a  rough  scaifolding, 
and  all  around  were  loose  bricks,  and  mortar,  and  rough 
plank,  and  the  upturned  earth,  on  which  not  a  blade  of  grass 
was  growing.  I  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  and 
said  to  myself, '  Folks  may  call  this  beautiful ;  but  give  me  the 
beauty  of  the  woods,  of  the  tall  tree,  springing  from  the  great 
trunk,  and  tapering  up  into  the  slender  spire,  which,  like  the 
good  man's  thoughts,  point  always  to  heaven;  or  even  the 
beauty  of  our  old  log  cabin,  rough,  uncouth,  and,  like  a  shape- 
less dwarf,  a  world  too  broad  for  its  height,  but  covered  all  over 
with  an  evergreen  coat  made  for  it  by  the  Creator.'  This  is 
what  I  thought ;  but  as  I  sat  tliere,  the  scaffolding  seemed  to 
fall  away,  the  grass  to  spring  up  around,  and  the  building  to 
rise,  like  what  it  is  now,  —  more  beautiful  than  any  work  of 
man  I  have  ever  seen. 

"  Then  it  flashed  upon  me  that  the  soul  is  like  that  build- 
ing, half-finished,  but  rising  from  the  earth  to  be  a  tiling  at 
which  the  man  himself  shall,  some  day,  wonder.  The  evils 
around  and  in  us  are  only  the  bricks  and  mortar,  and  other 
rubbish  by  which  the  soul  is  growing,  and  the  body  is  only 


64  O  N     T  II  E     IJ  O  H  D  K  U  . 

the  scaffolding  by  which  it  is  rising  into  the  heavens.  The 
rubbish  will  be  cleared  away,  the  scaffolding  be  thrown  down, 
and  then  the  soul  will  rise,  a  thing  of  grandeur  and  of 
beauty  forever." 

His  eyes  now  gave  out  another  light,  his  thin  nostrils 
opened  and  shut,  and  his  whole  face  was  aglow  with  the 
strange  enthusiasm  that  possessed  him ;  but  the  woman  said 
coolly,  "And  yet,  John,  some  men  haint  never  more'n  half- 
finished.  They  go  out  of  the  world  no  higher  to  heaven  nor 
when  they  come  into  it." 

"  So  it  seems  to  us,  mother ;  but  that  is  only  because  so 
much  rubbish  gathers  about  them  that  we  can't  see  their 
growth.  The  soul,  which  is  the  workman,  sometimes,  too,  sees 
so  much  rubbish  around  that  it  gets  discouraged,  and  stops 
working,  and  as  the  building  doesn't  go  up  before  our  eyes, 
we  forget  that  it  has  even  a  foundation.  But  it  has  ;  and  the 
more  rubbish  there  is  about  it,  the  higher  and  grander  it  will 
rise  at  last ;  for  the  rubbish  —  which  is  what  we  call  evil  — 
is  only  the  material  out  of  which  the  building  is  formed.  It 
may  not  rise  to  its  full  height  in  this  world,  but  it  will  in  the 
world  to  come." 

"  No,  no,  my  son !  '  As  the  tree  falls,  so  it  lies  ! '  ^  There  is 
no  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom  in  the  grave  ! '  " 

"  That  is  not  the  meaning  of  those  words,  mother.  The 
tree  does  not  lie  as  it  falls ;  and  all  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  is 
in  the  grave.  The  tree  rots  away,  and  springs  up  again  in  the 
green  grass  and  the  beautiful  flower;  and  the  soul,  which  only 
buds  here,  blossoms  there,  and  sends  out  its  fragrance  for- 
ever." 

"  Ah,  John,  this  comes  on  yer  over-much  reading  and  yer 


AFTER     TWENTY     YEARS. 


65 


day-dreamin'.     Yer  sorry  wrong.     Ye  mustn't  be  wise  above 
what  is  \\Titten." 

«Iam  not  wise  above  what  is  written,  mother,  —  above 
what  is  written  here,  —  in  my  soul.  That  is  the  true  interpre- 
ter of  God's  word  and  works.  The  one  who  has  not  rightly 
read  his  own  soul,  cannot  know  God,  or  read  one-half  of  the 
riddles  that  surround  us." 

"  We  carn't  read  'em  any  way,  John.  Ye  know  what  yer 
father  says,  —truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  weU." 

« Yes,  I  know ;  but  when  I  look  down  the  well,  I  see  my 
own  face  in  the  water.  When  I  try  to  find  God  in  nature,  or 
in  the  great  world,  I  feel  lost,  — lost,  as  the  worm  does  when 
he  looks  up  at  the  stars ;  but  when  I  look  down  the  well,  and 
see  my  own  soul  reflected  there,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Un- 
known ;  for  we  are  made  in  the  image  of  God." 

"  But  ye  don't  s'pose  God  ar'  a  man  ?  Ye  don't  s'pose  ye 
kin  measure  him  ?  " 

"  No,  mother  ;  no  more  than  father,  with  his  rod  and  chain, 
can  measure  yonder  mountain.  But  with  just  such  tools  as 
his,  other  men  have  measured  higher  mountains,  —  put  a  gir- 
dle round  about  the  earth,  and  found  the  distance  of  stars 
—  suns  like  ours  —  which  are  so  far  away  that  imagination 
itself  wearies  in  going  the  long  journey." 

"Ah,  John,  John,  I  wish  ye'd  put  away  sech  thoughts. 
Come  nigher  the  earth,  and  leave  the  stars  alone.  No  one  by 
searching  kin  find  out  God." 

"  Thar  you  are  wrong,  mother.  Jesus  found  him  out, 
shared  his  thoughts,  probed  his  plans,  and,  with  a  single 
glance  of  his  eye,  took  in  the  whole  of  history  to  the  end  of 


6» 


66  ONTHEBORDER. 

time.     Think  upon  the  parables  of  the  kingdom,  and  tell  me 

« 
if  what  I  say  is  not  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  son,  it'r  true  ;  but  Jesus  was  God." 

"  I  know  you  think  so,  mother ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  he 
was  not ;  but  you,  and*  the  rest  of  the  world,  forget  that  he 
was  also  man,  — that  he  wept  and  prayed,  was  hungry  and 
faint,  felt  grief  and  pain,  like  other  men.  God  himself,  if  he 
took  our  nature  upon  him,  could  be  nothing  more  than  he 
was ;  but  in  exalting  Jesus  into  God  we  only  lower  him  as  a 
man ;  for  his  real  glory  is  that  he  was  a  man,  and,  that  being 
a  man,  he  lived  the  life  he  lived,  and  died  the  death  he  died. 
He  came  not  so  much  to  show  us  what  God  is,  as  what  man 
may  be  ;  and  when  I  think  of  his  life,  when  I  look  on  its  daz- 
zling beauty,  though  my  eyes,  like  Paul's,  are  blinded  with  the 
sight,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  real  grandeur  of  the  human 
soul,  —  of  the  ineffable  glory  in  which  it  will  be  clothed,  when, 
like  his,  it  shall  have  been  made  perfect  through  suffering." 

As  I  write  them,  the  man's  words  sound  like  the  rant  of 
a  half-crazed  fanatic ;  but,  as  he  spoke  them,  they  were  the 
natural  language  of  his  thoughts,  —  of  such  thoughts  as  in  the 
rugged  prose  of  the  old  Cameronian  would  have  had  a  rough 
force  and  eloquence  that  is  something  akin  to  the  lofty  gran- 
deur of  Milton. 

"  Ah,  John,  ye  deny  the  Lord  that  bought  ye.  I  weep,  — 
I  weep  bitter  tears  when  I  think  how  far  ye've  strayed  from 
the  faith  of  yer  fathers.  What  would  they  think  —  the  old 
Jordans  who  gave  their  lives  for  the  truth  —  if  they  know'd 
how  ye  dress  up  the  Lord  himself  in  the  clo'es  of  a  man,  — 
how,  with  shod  feet,  ye  go  upon  the  mountain  amid  all  the 
thunders  of  Sinai  ?  " 


AFTER     TWENTYYEAKS.  67 

"  Think,  mother  !  If  they  lived  now  they'd  think  as  I  do. 
The  world  has  moved  since  their  day.  It  was  dark  then. 
They  saw  only  half  tlie  truth  ;  but  now  the  mists  are  clearing 
away,  and  the  man  with  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart,  can 
look  straight  up  to  the  sun  in  all  his  morning  brightness." 

"  Ah,  John !  yer  heart  ar'  right ;  but  yer  head  ar'  sadly 
wrong,  —  a'most  turned  with  thinkin'  overmuch  on  things  as 
is  above  human  reason.  Oh  !  if  ye'd  only  beared  to  me,  only 
had  put  away  such  thoughts,  and  took  the  edication  yer 
father  offered  ye,  what  a  man  ye  moight  have  been,  —  what 
good  ye  moight  have  done  in  the  world !  " 

"  I  could  have  done  no  good  in  the  world,  mother.  None 
but  an  honest  man  can  make  other  men  honest ;  none  but  a 
good  man  can  make  them  good.  I  should  have  been  neither 
honest  nor  good  if  I  had  sold  my  conscience  for  a  little  learn- 
ing, and  preached  as  true  what  I  knew  to  be  false.  But  I 
don't  blame  father.  He  thought  he  was  doing  right,  and  for 
the  best.  And  I  don't  forget,  mother,"  and  here  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  hers,  and  his  voice  grew  husky  with  an  emotion 
his  face  did  not  express,  "  I  don't  forget  how  you  took  your 
scanty  earnings  to  buy  me  books  ;  how  you  begged  Israel  to 
teach  me  the  little  I  know ;  and  how  you  worked  of  nights, 
when  fLither  was  asleep,  to  pay  him  his  unfeeling  price.  No, 
mother,  I  don't  forget  this  ;  and  your  work  will  not  be  thrown 
away.  I  shall  do  something  yet.  God  never  fits  a  man  for 
work,  but  he  gives  him  the  work  to  do.  •  He  has  fitted  me  for 
something  better  than  I  am  doing ;  and  my  work  will  come, 
—  it  may  be  sooner  than  we  know." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  voice  trembled  as  she 
answered,  •'•  It  may  be,  John,  it  may  be.     Ye  has  a  wonder- 


68  ONTHEBORDER. 

ful  look  inter  tilings,  and  ye  orter  know.  But  I  am  paid, 
John,  for  all  I  ever  done,  —  more  than  paid.  Ye  has  allers 
been  a  lovin'  son  to  me,  and  I  knows  ye  has  been  to  God ;  and 
he  looks  onto  the  heart,  and  wont  holt  ye  to  account  for  things 
of  the  head,  that,  maybe,  ye  can't  hinder.  But  let  us  talk  no 
more  on  it,  for,  spite  of  all  I  kin  do,  it  brings  the  old  grief  back, 
—  the  only  grief  I  ever  bore  from  yer  father."  Then,  after 
a  pause,  she  added,  "  But,  Israel,  did  he  die  —  die  easy  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,"  said  the  man,  looking  away,  the  fearful  look 
coming  again  into  his  eyes.  "  It  was  awful,  —  aw^ful.  He 
thought  they  were  thar,  waiting  to  drag  him  down  to  the  tor- 
ments. With  his  last  breath  he  begged,  and  prayed,  and 
shrieked  in  such  a  terrible  way,  that  Rachel  was  half-dead 
with  fright,  and  her  mother  fainted.  And,  mother,"  he  put 
his  hand  ^gain  upon  her  arm,  and  his  voice  sunk  again  to  the 
low,  broken  whisper,  "  they  icere  thar.  I  couldn't  see,  but 
I  could  feel  them,  —  feel  their  breath,  their  cold,  clammy 
breath.  It  loaded  all  the  air,  and  almost  stifled  me  with  hor- 
ror. I  feel  it  7101V  ;  it  fills  the  room,  and  seems  to  be  creeping 
into  my  very  veins,  as  it  did  the  moment  I  saw  him  wrestling 
with  the  great  terror." 

Here  he  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet,  and  with  a  quick,  ner- 
vous step,  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  The  woman  gazed 
at  him  with  a  look  half  of  wonder  and  half  of  dread,  and  it 
was  some  minutes  before  she  said,  — 

"I  reckon  'taint  so,  John.  Ye  don't  s'pose  sperets  kin 
make  tharselves  felt  by  mortals  ?  " 

"  Felt  by  mortals  !  Why  not  ?  Do  you  never  feel  people 
without  seeing  them  ?  and  what  are  spirits  but  people,  —  men 
and  women  like  ourselves  ?  " 


A  F  T  K  R     T  W  E  N  T  Y     Y  E  A  R  S  69 

«  And  who  is  they  ?  " 

u  gjie^  —  the  evil  woman,  and  the  man." 

"Not     the   'Squar'  — the    poor   'Squar' ?  —  not    him,    ye 

think?" 

"  Oh,  no,  mother,  not  the  'Squire.     I  know  him.    His  breath 
is  as  gentle  as  a  child's.     He  never  comes  to  me  but  he  lifts  me 
up^  _  makes  me  purer  and  better ;  but  this,  —  it  stifles  me." 
He  took  one  or  two  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then, 
with  perhaps  the  same  instinct  that  led  the  servant  of  Saul  to 
seek  out  a  cunning  player  to  charm  away  the  evil  spirit  that 
troubled  the  wicked  king,  he  took  up  the  violin  which  lay  on 
the  bureau,  and  sat  down  again  by  the  fire.    Quickly  he  touched 
the  strings,  and  then  it  spoke  —  spoke  in  that  strange,  weird 
language  which  is  the  essence  of  all  music.     Not  every  man 
or  woman  has  an  ear  to  catch  the  subtle  spirit  that  slumbers 
in  the  soul  of  sound ;  but  this  man  and  this  woman  had  such 
an  ear,  and  to  them  the  violin  told  a  strange  and  awful  story. 
At  first  it  gave  out  low,  swaying  sounds,  as  if  echoing  the 
tread  of  a  weary  man,  who,  with  uncertain  step,  was  groping 
his  way  over  a  rugged  road  in  thick   darkness.     Then  it  ut- 
tered a  short,  shrill  cry,  like  the  alarmed  shout  of  a  surprised 
sentry  on  an  outpost,  and  then  a  loud  hail,  a  low  reply,  and 
another  cry,  which  seemed   to  wake  the  dark  army  of  the 
nether  world ;  for  at  once  there  came  the  rapid  tread  of  many 
feet,  and  the  swift  rush  of  hot  breath,  like  that  which  rises 
from  the  pit  that  is  bottomless.     Then  it  gave  out  a  quick, 
broken  noise,  like  the  startled  cry  of  a  man  in  some  deathly 
terror;    and  then    again  the  rapid  tread  of  many  feet,  and 
a  dull,  rushing  sound,  like  the   slow  falling  of  a  dense  body 
through    air    that   is    heavy   with    the    fumes    of    charcoal. 


70  O  N     T  H  E     p.  O  R  D  E  R  . 

Then  again  came  the  startled  cry,  changing  now  into  a  low 
wail,  and  then,  into  an  earnest  prayer,  faint  and  broken,  but 
rising  soon,  clear  and  loud,  above  the  yell  of  the  angry  fiends, 
as  once  I  heard  a  seaman's  voice  rise  above  the  awful  roar  of 
the  storm,  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  that  was  thought  to  be  founder- 
ing at  midnight,  in  the  mid-ocean.  Then  there  came  the 
melody  of  human  voices,  and  a  rush  as  of  angel  wings 
swooping  down  to  rescue  the  soul  which  was  lost  in  the  dark 
abyss  of  evil.  Faint  and  fainter  it  gi'ew,  until  it  sank  into  a 
far-off  hail,  and  a  low  reply,  which  were  followed  by  the  clash 
of  arms  and  the  roar  of  conflict,  as  if  the  nether  world, 
stirred  to  its  depths,  was  rising  with  all  its  angry  host  and 
battling  with  the  rescuing  angels.  But  soon  the  din  died 
away,  and  there  again  came  the  rush  of  wings,  and  the 
melody  of  human  speech  rolling  up  from  the  dark  abyss  in  a 
glad  song,  near  and  nearer,  and  loud  and  louder,  until  it 
burst  into  a  grand  hallelujah.  Then  the  man,  who  until 
then  had  sat  as  if  entranced  by  the  strange  melody  he 
was  creating,  raised  his  head,  and  with  eyes  uplifted,  and 
hands  still  playing  with  the  magic  strings,  he  broke  into 
a  song  that  shook  the  rafters  of  the  rude  cabin,  and  floated 
off  on  the  still  air  till  the  far  woods  echoed  the  mighty  an- 
them of  salvation :  — 


"  To  Him  who  loved  us  first, 
Before  the  world  began ; 
To  him  who  bore  the  curse, 
To  save  rebellious  man ; 
To  him  who  forms 

Our  souls  for  heaven. 
Be  endless  praise 
And  glory  given. 


A  F  T  E  R     T  W  E  N  T  Y     V  K  A  R  S  .  71 

"  To  Christ,  the  Lord  of  heaven, 
The  first-bom  from  the  dead ; 
The  Prince  of  Life,  be  glory  given, 
And  wide  his  kingdom  spread; 
Through  earth's  extent 

His  honors  raise; 
And  all  consent 
His  name  to  praise." 

The  last  echoes  were  dying  away,  and  tlie  radiance  the  mu- 
sic had  evoked  was  still  lingering  on  the  faces  of  the  two 
who  sat  by  the  fire,  when  the  inner  door  opened,  and  a  tall, 
gaunt  man,  half-dressed,  entered  the  apartment.  His  hair  was 
gray,  and  a  long  stoop  was  in  his  shoulders ;  but  a  glance 
showed  that  he  was  the  same  stern,  but  canny  Scotchman  who, 
twenty  years  before,  had  bearded  the  first  politician  of  the 
district,  and  stood,  so  like  a  man,  by  the  broken  Wedding- 
ton. 

"  What's  this,  John  ?  what's  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  are 
making  racket  enough  to  raise  the  dead.  Don't  you  know 
it's  after  four  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  John,  without  looking  up  from  the  fire. 

"Dead!"  echoed  the  other,  with  a  sudden  start.  "Then 
may  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul !  " 

"  He  will.  He  doesn't  measure  out  his  mercy  by  a  narrow 
theology." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  you  never  knew  Irving,"  said  the  other, 
seating  himself  by  the  fire.  "  There  was  an  awful  weight  on 
his  soul." 

"I  know.  He  told  me  all,  —  more  than  you  ever  dreamed 
of." 

"  More  ?  I  read  him  twenty  years  ago,  as  if  he  had  been 
an  open  book  !  " 


72  ONTHEBORDER. 

"  No  one  ever  read  him.  You  don't  know  one-half  of  his 
crimes." 

"  Then  the  Lord  pity  him  !  I  know  he  had  a  soul  blacker 
than  j)itch  darkness." 

"  It  isn't  for  us  to  judge  of  his  soul,"  said  the  younger  man. 
"  He  has  felt  terrible  remorse ;  and  for  years  has  been  a  peni- 
tent man." 

"  Penitent,  John  !  Then  you  don't  know  him,  as  I  do.  I 
have  known  all  from  the  first ;  but,  out  of  love  for  the  memory 
of  the  poor  'Squire,  I  have  never  opened  my  mouth.  But 
now  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,  and  then  think,  if  you  can,  that 
he  was  penitent.  You  know  that  after  the  mansion  was 
burned,  and  when  he  was  houseless  and  penniless,  the  hands 
set  to  work  and  built  his  cabin  and  barn,  and  got  in  the  sup- 
plies I  gave  him  for  the  winter.  Well,  then  that  scoundrel 
Cecil  began  the  lawsuit,  and  served  on  me  the  injunction  that 
stopped  the  removal  of  the  negroes.  I  suspected  that  Irving 
knew  all  about  the  will,  and  could,  by  a  word  of  evidence,  en- 
able me  to  remove  the  injunction.  So  I  went  to  him.  I  told 
him  I  knew  all  his  doings  ;  but  they  would  be  as  secret  with 
me  as  the  grave,  if  he  would  only  say  the  word  that  would  let 
those  people  go.  He  didn't  deny  a  thing  ;  but  laughed  in  my 
face,  and  cursed  the  negroes,  —  cursed  them  when  he  was  un- 
der their  roof,  and  eating  their  bread  !  He  seemed  to  want 
to  make  every  one  as  miserable  as  he  was.  Twenty  times 
since,  as  the  suit  has  been  carried  up  from  court  to  court  these 
twenty  years,*  I  have  gone  to  him,  and  have  always  had  the 

*  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  this  suit  was  in  the  Kentucky  courts  for  more 
than  twenty  years,  and  the  negroes  were  only,  at  last,  liberated  by  the  order  of 
General  Garfield,  after  he  invaded  Eastern  Kentucky. 


A  F  T  K  R     TWENTY     YEARS.  73 

same  answer.  You  think  he  was  penitent !  True  penitence 
bears  fruit,  and  its  first  fruit  is  good-will  to  one's  neighbors,  — 
particularly  to  one's  poor  neighbors." 

The  younger  man  made  no  answer ;  but  the  woman  said,  — 

"  Say  no  more  of  him.  Let  him  rest.  He  is  in  the  hands 
of  God.  But  what  is  to  become  of  Rachel  and  her  mother  ? 
Jackson  Weddington  has  sot  eyes  on  the  girl.  Do  yer  think 
he  means  to  marry  her  ?  " 

"No,  mother,"  said  the  son.  "He  would  treat  her  as  he 
did  poor  Lucy.  Her  father  feared  it,  and  so  I  promised  him  I 
would  marry  her." 

"  Marry  her !  "  echoed  the  older  Jordan,  his  florid  face  flush- 
ing a  deeper  red.  "  Marry  the  daughter  of  such  a  man  —  a 
low  thief,  and  a  "  — 

He  checked  himself,  and  the  woman  added,  — 

''And  the  darter  of  sich  a  'ooman,  —  allers  uncontented, 
allers  flyin'  in  the  face  of  Providence  !  The  father  was  bad 
enough,  but  the  mother  is  worse ;  and  Rachel  takes  arter 
her.  She  cares  fur  nothin'  but  dress  and  show.  John,  she'd 
never  make  ye  happy." 

"  Happy !  "  echoed  the  son.  "  The  man  who  aims  at  hap- 
piness always  misses  his  mark.  Duty  is  the  one  thing  to 
think  of;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  marry  Rachel." 

A  short  silence  followed.  It  was  broken  by  the  older  Jor- 
dan, who  had  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  as  if  repressing 
some  deep  emotion. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  he  said.     "  You  are  obstinate, 

John,  —  obstinate  as  a  mule  ;  but  you  take  it  fi'om  men  who 

died   for   their   faith,  —  died    to    give   freedom   to    Scotland. 

I've  nothing  to  say,  only  I  wish,  —  no  matter  to  what  it  had 

7 


74  ONTHEBORDER. 

led,  —  I  wish  I  had  sent  you  away  to  get  an  education.  Then 
this  disgrace  might  not  have  come  upon  your  old  mother  and 
father." 

His  head  sank  again  into  his  hands,  and  no  more  was 
spoken. 

And  now  having,  during  the  twenty  years  that  are  covered 
by  this  chapter,  nailed  a  few  weather-boards  upon  our  one- 
story  building,  and  revealed  enough  of  the  inner  life  of  our 
rustic  hero  to  make  credible  the  marvels  of  his  future  career, 
we  will  leave  those  three  sitting  there  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
early  winter  morning,  and  plunge  into  the  thick-coming  events 
that  follow. 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE   FUNERAL. 


E  ATH  comes  seldom  into  this  quiet  valley ;  but  when 
it  does  come,  its  voice  echoes  among  its  rustic  homes 
like  the  sound  of  a  great  tree  falling  in  a  still  forest, 
and  now,  though  it  is  a  week-day,  and  a  heavy  fall  of 
snow  obstructs  the  narrow  roads,  the  simple  dwellers  of  the 
district  have  gathered,  from  far  and  near,  to  pay  the  last  rites 
to  the  dead  at  the  lonely  church  at  the  cross-roads.  It  is  a 
rude,  unshapely  structure  of  logs,  but  through  its  low  door- 
way a  nameless  multitude  have  passed  to  the  shadowy  realm 
of  the  immortals ;  and  now  all  that  could  die  of  another  soul  is 
waiting  on  that  rude  bench  to  join  the  silent  throng  who  are 
sleeping  the  long  sleep  in  the  little  graveyard. 

The  rude  people  are  seated  around  on  the  rough  benches, 
oppressed  by  the  silent  awe  which  all  feel  in  the  presence  of 
death  ;  and  on  low  seats  in  front  of  the  platform  are  two 
women  decently  clad  in  black,  their  faces  hidden  in  the  wad- 
ded hoods,  which  are  the  winter  head-dress  of  their  class  in 
this  region.  These  women  are  the  mourners,  and  it  may  be 
that  only  they  will  drop  a  tear  over  the  dark,  unloved  man, 
who  soon  will  be  at  rest  in  the  wanter's  snow  forever.  But 
no,  —  other  eyes  are  wet,  and  another  head  is  bowed  in  sorrow. 

(75) 


76 


ON    THE    ij  o  II  D  i:  n 


All  old  negro  sits  at  the  right  of  the  platform,  among  the 
choristers,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  whole 
frame  trembling,  ever}'-  now  and  then,  with  suppressed  emo- 
tion. In  one  hand  he  holds  a  huge  violoncello,  worn,  cracked, 
and  of  a  decidedly  jaundiced  complexion,  but  he  clutches  it 
closely  to  his  side,  as  if  it  were  a  living  thing,  —  some  old 
friend,  or  near  blood-relation.  Soon  he  lifts  his  head,  and,  as 
he  looks  around  in  an  absent  way,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 
features.  They  are  broad,  intensely  black,  and  deeply  fur- 
rowed ;  but  in  them,  and  in  his  deep,  large  eye,  there  is  a  sort 
of  slumbering  power  which  at  once  strikes  the  beholder.  He 
must  be  of  great  age,  for  his  bushy  hair  is  as  white  as  wool, 
and  his  flesh  only  thinly  covers  his  bones  in  wrinkled  layers ; 
but  his  large,  almost  massive  frame  is  erect  and  apparently 
as  agile  as  that  of  a  stripling.  Every  square  inch  of  his 
body  seems  instinct  with  genuine  manhood ;  and  yet  here, 
where  men  are  sold  by  weight,  I  doubt  if  he  would,  put  up  to 
the  highest  bidder,  bring  a  dollar  a  pound. 

In  a  few  moments  the  preacher  advances  to  the  little  desk 
which  surmounts  the  platform,  and,  with  a  long  prayer,  opens 
the  services.  He  is  a  gaunt,  angular  man,  with  a  thin  cadav- 
erous face,  and  long  bony  arms,  which,  as  he  becomes 
engaged  in  his  work,  flounder  about  the  desk  in  the  manner 
of  the  finny  tribe  when  first  drawn  from  their  native  element. 
The  prayer  is  not  a  prayer ;  for  it  asks  for  nothing ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  self-satisfied  air  of  the  man  shows  that  he  wants 
nothing,  at  least  nothing  from  any  invisible  region.  He 
comes  to  an  end  at  last,  and  then,  in  a  strong,  nasal  drawl, 
lines  out  a  hymn,  which  is  sung  by  the  whole  congregation. 
The  singing  over,  he  begins  the  sermon. 


T  II  E     F  U  N  E  R  A  L  77 

It  is  an  incoherent,  almost  blasphemous  harangue,  and 
unfit  to  be  fully  recorded.  If  dead  men  have  to  listen  to 
what  is  said  over  their  coffins,  many  a  sensitive  man  would 
pray  to  have  his  eternity  in  the  coldest  corner  of  this  world, 
rather  than  be  condemned  to  hear  the  words  spoken  at  his 
funeral.  The  preacher  began  by  telling  the  Maker  how  he 
should  govern  the  universe,  and  then  he  hinted  at  the  disposi- 
tion He  should  make  of  the  sinful  soul  which  had  so  recently 
gone  to  judgment.  He  was  a  bad  man,  —  l^eyond  a  doubt  he 
was  a  bad  man,  —  everybody  said  so,  though  nobody  know'd 
nothing  certain  agin  him ;  but  the  preacher  did  know  that  fif- 
teen years  afore  he  had  labored  for  his  conversion,  —  labored 
like  time,  —  and  been  met  with  a  rude  rebuff,  which  was  the 
way  sinners  grieved  away  the  sperit,  and  got  lost  forever 
inter  the  outer  darkness.  He  trusted  it  warn't  so  with  him  j 
but  if  it  war',  he  hoped  the  Lord  would  look  with  kind  eyes 
on  his  sinful  life,  and  deviate  enough  from  his  custom  in  such 
cases,  to  give  him  a  place  in  Abraham's  bosom.  If  he  would, 
it  would  afford  particular  consolation  to  the  mourning  women 
who  were  weeping  beside  his  coffin,  and  would,  probably,  not 
entirely  derange  the  solar  system. 

The  discourse  contained,  perhaps,  a  world  of  truth,  but 
it  certainly  was  little  calculated  to  .  comfort  the  mourners. 
During  its  delivery  the  congregation  listened  with  anx- 
ious and  disturbed  faces,  and  the  two  women  sat  with  bowed 
heads,  one  of  them  weeping  convulsively.  The  old  black, 
however,  was  differently  affected.  He  moved  about  uneasily 
on  his  seat,  now  and  then  clutching  the  violoncello  as  if  he 
would  crush  it  to  atoms ;  and  the  sermon  was  no  sooner  over, 
than,  springing  suddenly  to  his  feet,  he  gave  vent  to  the  fire 

7* 


78  ONTHEBORDER. 

and  fary  which  had  been  gathering  -w-ithin  him.  The  scene 
that  followed  was  one  for  a  painter;  and  could  have  hap- 
pened in  no  other  than  this  primitive  region. 

While  the  people  looked  on  with  staring  eyes,  and  the 
preacher  stood,  half-bending  over  the  desk,  transfixed  with 
amazement,  the  old  black  drew  up  his  majestic  frame  to  its 
full  height,  and  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  impetuous  word? 
that  would  have  entranced  Demosthenes  himself,  —  if  he  had 
been  born  with  an  ear  for  negro  eloquence. 

"  'Taint  so  !  "  he  cried,  "  ladies  and  gemmen  !  'Taint 
so !  Parson  Bradslaw  don't  know  nuffin'  'bout  it !  'Taint 
so ;  and  'taint  fur  him  to  come  yere,  and  sit  in  de  judgment 
on  a  feller-creeter  as  neber  done  him  no  wrong :  and,  p'raps, 
'taint  fur  me  to  speak  in  meetin'  to  white  folks;  but  ole 
'Zeke  wouldn't  be  de  man  as  some  on  you  hab  know'd  him 
fur  nigh  outer  fifty  year,  if  he  sot  still,  and  leff  dis  ig'rant 
parson  send  his  pore  massa,  as  is  dead  and  gone,  down 
among  de  hot  debils.  He  haint  dar  !  'Zeke  knows  he  haint 
dar  ;  for  warn't  he  wid  him  night  and  day  for  nigh  onto 
twenty  year,  and  couldn't  he  learn  him  all  by  heart  in  dat 
time  ?  Maybe  he  done  wrong,  —  dough 'Zeke  don't  say  so,  — 
but  who  don't  done  wrong  ?  —  not  you,  nor  me,  nor  eben  dis 
yere  parson,  who  am  paid  to  gib  pore  massa  a  decent  berry- 
ing, but  comes  yere  and  sits  down  in  de  judgment  on  a  feller- 
creetur.  'Taint  Christian  to  git  money  under  sech  false 
pretensions,  and  pore  Massa  Israel  —  if  he  was  a  sinner  — 
wouldn't  have  done  no  sech  mean  thing,  no  how.  He  neber 
done  no  mean  ting,  as  I  knows  on ;  and  I  knows  a  heap  he 
done  like  de  good  Samaritan.  You've  yeard  ob  him,  —  how 
when  de  priest  and  de  Levite  passed  by  on  de  oder  side,  he 


T  H  E     F  U  N  E  R  A  L  .  79 

went  to  de  wounded  man,  bound  up  his  hurts,  laid  him  on 
his  own  mule,  and  paid  for  his  night's  lodging.  Now  dat's 
jest  what  Massa  Israel  done  once  to  ole  'Zeke,  who  haint 
nuffin*  but  a  poor  brack  man.  He  war  down  sick  wid  dat 
drefful  sickness  what  kills  all  as  comes  nigh  it,  and  de  par- 
sons and  de  doctors  —  dem  am  de  priest  and  de  Levite  — 
wouldn't  come  widin  a  mile  ob  him ;  but  Massa  Israel  he 
come,  —  he  come,  and  he  bound  up  his  hurts,  gabe  him  de  cool 
drink,  and  de  hot  broth,  and  tended  him  night  and  day  till 
dar  warn't  nuffin  leff  ob  de  dreftul  sickness  but  de  big  scars 
you  kin  see  yit  under  dese  wrinkles. 

*'  Just  tink  ob  dat,  ladies  and  gemmen,  —  a  gemman  like 
what  Massa  Israel  was  in  dem  days,  a  tendin'  a  poor  brack 
man,  at  de  risk  ob  his  own  life,  ebery  night  and  day  for  a 
whole  fortnight !  And  what  does  ye  spose  he  done  den  ? 
Why,  dough  it  was  agin  de  law,  he  larned  him  to  read ;  and 
it  am  aU  along  ob  him  dat  ole  'Zeke  kin  read  de  Bible,  and 
de  hymns  dat  am  sung  in  de  great  congregation.  And  does 
you  spose  dat  sich  a  man  was  a  bad  man,  and  am  gone 
down  among  de  hot  debils  ?  I  reckons  not ;  and  if  you  does, 
you  neber  seed  him,  as  ole  'Zeke  hab  seed  him,  a  kneelin' 
down  in  de  woods,  and  a  cryin'  and  a  groanin'  to  de  Lord  till 
de  tears  run  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  shook  all  ober  like  a  leaf 
in  a  gale  ob  wind,  —  a  cryin'  and  a  groanin'  to  de  Lord  to 
tuck  de  burden  off  his  soul,  —  to  roll  away  de  stone  from 
de  door  ob  de  sepulchre  so  he  might  come  out  inter  de  free  air, 
under  de  clar  sky,  and  leab  all  his  tattered,  worn-out  clo'es 
ahind  him. 

"  And  now  de  Lord  hob  rolled  away  de  stone  from  de  door 
ob  de  sepulchre,  and  massa  hab  corned  out  inter  de  free  air, 


80  ONTHEBOKDER. 

under  de  Cx  ar  skj,  and  am  fass  gwine  up  de  ladder  dat  Jacob 
seed  in  his  dream,  — dat  ladder  dat  reach  from  de  yearth  to 
de  heaben,  and  on  which  de  angels  ob  de  Lord  am  allers  as- 
cendin'  and  descendin'.  P'raps  he  haint  high  up  yit, — 
p'raps  he  haint,  —  but  afore  he  die  he  got  his  foot  outer  de 
fuss  round,  and  now  it  am  on  de  second ;  and  dem  as  gits  dat 
high  neber  comes  down  agin,  —  neber  comes  down  agin,  but 
goes  on  and  up,  till  dey  lands  on  de  bery  top,  right  in  de 
heabenly  kentry. 

^^'S'cuse  me,  ladies  and  gemmen;  p'raps  I've  said  what  I 
ortent  to  say  to  white  folks  ;  but  I  couldn't  holp  it ;  I  couldn't 
sot  still,  and  yere  my  massa  sent  among  de  hot  debils,  —  my 
massa,  as  wid  his  dyin'  breaf  telled  me  he  had  made  me  a  free 
man,  —  made  me  a  freeman,  when  he  had  nuffin'  else  in  all  de 
worle,  'cept  a  ole  cabin,  and  some  sile  as  wont  raise  only  rocks 
and  cow-peas,  to  leab  to  his  wdfe  and  Missy  Eachel. 

"  I  know  you  don't  tink  sich  a  man  as  dat  am  gone  among 
de  hot  debils ;  I  knows  you  don't,  ladies  and  gemmen,  so  I 
wont  say  no  more,  —  only  dis :  dat  missus  hab  paid  dis  par- 
son five  dollar  'spressly  to  come  yere  from  de  village,  and  say 
a  kind  word  for  pore  massa  ;  and  he  haint  done  it.  He  hab 
done  all  he  could  to  send  him  down  among  de  hot  debils ; 
and  arter  doin'  dat,  he  orter  to  guv  back  de  money.  He 
orter,  and  if  he  don't,  some  on  ye  gemmen,  as  is  white,  and 
so  kin  be  judge  and  jury,  orter  hev  him  up  ter  onct  for  gittin' 
it  under  false  pretensions.  I  knows  de  law;  and  it  kin  be 
done ;  for  dem  sort  o'  folks  can't  run  loose  in  dis  kentry,  — 
'cept  on  Sunday." 

The  negro  sat  down,  and  the  preacher  sprang  to  his  feet, 
fire  and  fury  in  his  face  and  gestures.     While  the  black  was 


T  II  K     F  U  N  E  R  A  L  .  81 

speaking,  he  might  have  driven  a  billet  of  wood  into  a  solid 
rock  more  easily  than  have  wedged  a  word  in  among  his 
passionate  sentences ;  but,  when  he  had  ended,  the  field 
was  all  his  own,  and  he  improved  it  in  a  singular  fash- 
ion. He  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  denunciation  which  ended 
with,  — 

"  I  shake  yer  dust  off  uv  my  feet ;  I  go,  and  I  leave  yer 
money  with  ye  [here  he  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  throw- 
ing upon  the  floor  a  bank-note,  which  was  instantly  taken  up 
by  the  negro].  I  go,  and  I  shall  not  return ;  for  the  Lord 
hath  said,  '  Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead,'  and  '  Go  thou  and  do 
likewise.' " 

These  irregular  proceedings  were  so  sudden,  and  so  unex- 
pected, that  the  congregation  sat  as  if  paralyzed  till  they  were 
over;  but  when  'the  excited  preacher  tore  down  the  aisle 
toward  the  door-way,  a  number  of  persons  rose  to  bring  him  to 
the  pulpit  and  to  reason ;  but  the  voice  of  the  old  black  ar- 
rested any  such  intentions.  Holding  the  bank-note  aloft  in 
his  hand,  he  cried  out,  — 

'•  Leff  him  go,  ladies  and  gemmen  !  leff  him  go  !  He's  leff 
more'n  he'm  worth  ahind  him.  Massa  Jordan'U  go  on  wid  de 
ex'cises,  ef  he  wont;  old  Zeke  don't  want  /n's  massa  buried 
as  dat  parson  'ud  bury  him." 

Quiet  was  shortly  restored,  and  the  old  Scotchman,  entering 
the  desk,  concluded  the  services.  Then  the  coffin  was  lifted 
upon  the  shoulders  of  four  strong  men,  and,  followed  by  the 
mourners  and  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  was  borne  to  the 
little  graveyard  on  the  other  side  of  the  highway.  There  it 
was  placed  on  the  snow,  near  an  open  grave,  and  the  rude 
people  gathered  round  to  take  a  last  look  at  its  silent  tenant. 


82  O  X     T  H  E     B  O  li  D  E  K  . 

The  mourners  stood  apart,  the  older  woman  wringing  het 
hands  and  weeping  convulsively,  and  the  younger  silent  and 
abstracted,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away  in  the  dim  re- 
gion to  which  the  spirit  of  the  dead  man  had  journe3^ed.  So 
they  stood  while  a  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  younger  Jordan 
lifted  the  lid  from  the  ground  as  if  to  nail  down  the  coffin. 
The  young  woman  then  sprang  forward. 

"  Not  yet !  not  yet ! "  she  cried.  '•  I  must  see  him  once 
more." 

Instinctively  the  people  moved  back  from  the  grave,  and 
left  the  dead  and  the  living  alone  together.  Kneeling  down 
on  the  snow,  she  threw  her  arms  about  the  stiffened  corpse, 
and  pressed  her  face  against  its  pallid  features.  For  a  mo- 
ment her  lips  moved  as  if  in  prayer ;  then  she  rose,  and, 
turning  to  the  young  man,  she  said  in  a  voice  which  had  in  it 
no  trace  of  feeling,  "  You  can  go  on,  John,  it  is  over." 

They  lowered  the  body  into  the  grave,  and  as  tlie  first 
frozen  sod  fell  upon  the  rude  coffin,  the  young  woman  turned, 
and,  with  the  other  woman,  and  the  old  black,  walked  toward 
the  highway.  As  she  did  so  the  wind  blew  back  her  hood 
and  revealed  her  features.  They  were  pallid,  —  pallid  as 
those  of  the  dead  man,  — but  they  wore  a  fixed,  resolute  ex- 
pression, as  if  by  some  great  effort  of  will  she  were  keeping 
down  her  emotion. 

She  was  tall,  —  somewhat  above  the  medium  height,  — 
but  of  a  slight  and  graceful  figure.  Her  features  were  prom- 
inent, her  chin  was  broad,  and  her  face  stern  and  almost  hard 
in  its  outline  ;  but  her  forehead  was  full  and  wide,  expressing 
benevolence  and  breadth  of  mind,  and  her  large  hazel  eyes, 
though  now  burning  with  a  sort  of  dead  fire,  had  in  them  a 


T  H  K     !<'  U  N  i:  K  A  L  .  83 

latent  softness  and  warmth  that  showed  she  had  the  sensibil- 
ity and  tenderness  of  a  true  woman.  She  walked  with  a  firm 
and  rapid  step,  holding  the  otlier  woman  by  the  hand,  and 
when  she  reached  the  highway,  turned  and  said  coldly  to  the 
old  black,  "  Bring  the  sled  here,  'Zekiel.  We  will  go  home 
now." 

As  the  black  went  to  do  her  bidding,  two  yoyng  men  who 
had  followed  them  from  the  grave,  approaclied  the  two  women. 
One  was  a  short,  squarely-built  man  of  about  thirty,  with  a 
ruddy  face,  and  an  easy,  good-natured,  expression ;  the  other 
a  tall,  spare,  angular  man,  some  years  younger.  He  had 
a  (lark  skin,  and  coarse  black  hair,  but  regular,  finely-cut 
features,  which  would  have  been  handsome,  had  they  not  been 
overshadowed  by  large,  sunken  eyes  of  uncertain,  if  not  sin- 
ister expression.  Like  his  companion,  he  was  well-dressed, 
and  had  the  air  of  one  who  had  mingled  with  the  world. 
Between  him  and  the  young  woman  there  was  a  certain  re- 
semblance which  would  have  struck  even  a  casual  observer. 
It  was  not  in  the  face,  for  hers  was  fair  and  open,  with  an  ex- 
pression which,  though  at  the  moment  stern,  had  in  it  nothing 
of  evil ;  while  his  was  dark  and  secret,  as  if  he  were  nursing 
thoughts  too  ugly  to  be  allowed  abroad  in  the  daylight. 
The  likeness  was  in  their  general  carriage,  and  in  the  whole 
contour  of  their  forms  and  features.  He  was  evidently  not 
welcome  ;  for,  as  he  lifted  his  hat  and  met  the  eye  of  the 
young  woman,  she  turned  away  with  a  mingled  look  of  dis- 
like and  terror. 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  homp  in  my  sleigh  ?  "  he  said,  not 
seeming  to  notice  these  signs  of  aversion.  "  The  drifts  are 
heavy,  and  the  road  but  poorly  broken," 


84  O  N     T  n  E     BORDER. 

"Thank  you/'  answered  the  elder  woman,  between  her 
sobsj  for  she  was  still  weeping.     "  We  "  — 

Before  she  could  say  more  the  younger  one  interrupted  her 
with  "  No,  no,  mother.  We'll  go  alone  ;  we'll  not  trouble 
you,  Mr.  Weddington."  This  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  with 
her  face  still  averted,  and  a  hard  emphasis  on  the  last  words. 

"  It  will  be  no  trouble,"  he  said,  blandly,  and  moving  a 
step  or  two  forward  to  catch  a  glance  at  her  features.  "  No 
trouble,  I  assure  you."   " 

"  We  knows  it  wont  be,"  sobbed  the  elder  woman.  "  Ye's 
allers  so  kind,  Mr.  Weddington.  We'd  better  go,  Eachel. 
'Zeke  ar'  so  blind,  he'll  tip  us  inter  the  first  snow-bank." 

"  You  can  go,  mother,  if  you  like.  I  will  ride  with  'Ze- 
kiel,"  said  the  younger  woman,  now  turning  round  and  meet- 
ing the  glance  of  the  young  man  firmly ;  but  her  nostrils 
dilated,  and  she  drew  a  quick  breath,  as  if  the  words  cost 
her  an  eifort.     "  To-day  I  prefer  to  be  alone." 

"  It  is  natural  you  should,  and,  believe  me,  I  wouldn't  ob- 
trude my  attentions  on  you,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  tone 
which  was  as  soft  as  the  gentlest  zephyr. 

"  We  is  in  great  sorrer,"  moaned  the  elder  woman,  "  great 
sorrer ;  and,  0  Mr.  Weddington,  what  will  become  on  us  ? 
—  two  lone  wimmen,  with  not  a  dollar,  and  not  a  friend  in 
all  the  wide  wurld,  —  in  all  the  wide,  wide  wurld ! " 

"  Hush,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  in  the  same  low  tone 
as  before.  "We  have  hands,  —  we  can  work,  —  God  will 
not  leave  us  friendless." 

"  Spoken  like  a  true  'ooman,"  now  said  the  older  of  the 
two  men.  "  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  Eachel.  Yell  not  want 
a  friend  so  long  as  Brad.  Brown  ar'  above  ground." 


T  H  E     F  U  N  E  R  A  L  .  85 

"  Nor  SO  long  as  I  live,"  said  Weddington,  "  shall  you 
want  anything  that  money  can  give  you." 

The  young  woman  turned  rather  impatiently  away,  and 
the  elder  broke  into  a  perfect  hurricane  of  thanks,  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  old  negro  drove  up  with  the  rude  sled 
which  had  conveyed  them  to  the  funeral.  It  was  a  rough 
box,  supported  on  a  couple  of  saplings,  bent  so  as  to  serve  as 
both  shafts  and  limners  to  the  vehicle ;  and  it  was  attached 
by  a  rope  harness  to  a  quadruped  old  enough  to  have  forgot- 
ten all  about  his  colthood. 

The  old  black  sprang  nimbly  to  the  ground,  saying  "  All 
a-ready,  missus,"  and  the  younger  man  held  out  his  hand  to 
help  the  younger  woman  into  the  sled,  whose  sides  were 
nearly  as  high  as  a  five-barred  gate.  As  he  did  so,  the 
old  negro  brushed  him  rudely  aside,  and,  catching  his  young 
mistress  lightly  in  his  arms,  lifted  her  into  the  vehicle.  The 
movement  was  so  sudden,  and  so  violent,  that  it  well-nigh 
took  the  white  man  off  his  feet.  In  a  moment  he  turned 
fiercely  on  the  black,  and,  with  a  fearful  oath,  aimed  at  him 
a  blow,  which,  if  it  had  taken  effect,  would  have  laid  the  old 
man  prostrate.  But  the  black  stepped  nimbly  aside,,  the 
other's  clenched  fist  hit  only  the  thin  air ;  and,  obeying  the 
laws  of  motion,  he  went  headlong  into  a  snow-bank.  Spring- 
ing instantly  to  his  feet,  he  was  about  to  repeat  the  blow, 
when  the  younger  Jordan,  who  had  now  come  up,  caught  his 
arm,  saying,  — 

"  Think  of  it,  Weddington  !  Only  a  coward  will  strike  a 
negro." 

Weddington's  face,  which  when  he  rose  was  a  flame  of  fire, 
now  took  on  a  dull,  leaden  hue,  and  quickly  drawing  a  long 


86  ON     THE     BOUUEK. 

knife,  he  sprang  upon  Jordan.  The  latter  caught  his  de- 
scending hand,  and  the  two  struggled  for  a  moment.  Then 
the  knife  fell  to  the  ground,  and,  with  one  lift  of  Jordan's 
powerful  arms,  Weddington  was  again  buried  in  the  snow- 
bank. 

The  old  negro,  as  if  unconscious  of  any  personal  concern  in 
these  rude  gymnastics,  had,  meanwhile,  lifted  the  elder  m'o- 
man  into  the  sled ;  but  now  he  turned  upon  the  prostrate 
man,  his  black  face  glowing  like  burning  anthracite. 

"  Massa 'Squire,"  he  growled  out,  "you'm  a  coward  and  a  vil- 
lun  to  boot  —  you  am  !  Ole  'Zeke  knows  you,  —  know'd  you 
afore  you  was  born.  You's  a  coward,  or  you  wouldn't  strike  a 
man  as  the  law  wont  'low  to  strike  you  back ;  and  you's  a  vil- 
lun,  or  you  wouldn't  ha'  said  to  Missy  Rachel  what  you  said 
lass  night,  —  lass  night  wid  her  dead  fader  in  de  house.  But 
jess  you  'member,  Massa  'Squar',  I'se  her  fader  now,  —  Ole 
'Zeke," —  and  he  drew  his  six  feet  two  inches  of  manly  sinew 
up  to  their  full  height,  "  and  ef  you  eber  comes  nigh  de  cabin 
agin,  —  ef  you  eber  sots  dem  snake's  eyes  ob  yourn  outer 
Missy  Rachel,  —  'spectful  or  not  'spectful,  —  ole  'Zeke  '11  whale 
you  till  you  can't  stand,  —  till  you'll  wish  de  Lord  neber'd 
make  anoder  darkj^  He  will,  —  shore  as  his  name  am  'Zeke, 
—  law  or  no  law." 

With  this  the  old  negro  took  the  reins  of  the  rude  vehicle, 
and  drove  away  amid  the  smothered  gratulations  of  the  people 
who  had  gathered  round,  attracted  by  the  disturbance.  When 
they  were  out  of  hearing,  the  elder  woman,  hushing  her  sobs 
for  the  occasion,  said  to  the  negro  in  a  sharp,  gritty  tone,  — 

"It  war  jest  like  ye,  'Zeke.  It  war  yer  everlastin'  querrel- 
some  speret.     Ye's  allers  gittin'  us  inter  trouble.     Ye's  mor- 


T  n  K     V  IJ  N  E  K  A  L 


87 


tally  'fended  that  good  man,  Parson  Bradslaw  ;  and  now  ye's 
lost  us  the  best  friend  we's  ever  had." 

Tlie  black  turned  about,  and  looking  at  the  woman,  a  smile 
of  mingled  contempt  and  pity  on  his  features,  he  said, — 

^'What  wud  you  hab,  missus?  What  wud  you  hab? 
Wud  you  pay  five  dollars  to  hab  pore  massa  sent  to  de  debil, 
and  den  ax  de  young  'Squar'  to  make  Missy  Kachel  a  ting 
as  decent  folk  wont  wipe  dar  shoes  on  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Weddington  wouldn't  do  no  sich  thing,"  snarled  the 
woman.  '•  He's  our  best  friend.  Rachel  shill  write  him  ter 
onct,  'pologizen'  for  your  conduct.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him 
we'd  never  hev  got  through  with  all  the  docterin'  and  'spence 
uv  this  winter." 

"Yas,  we  would,"  responded  the  negro,  turning  about 
again,  and  venting  his  feelings  in  a  smart  lash  on  the  back  of 
the  mule.  "  We'd  ha'  got  fru,  'case,  if  he'd  knowed  it,  pore 
massa  wud  ha'  died  wid  takin'  the  fuss  dollar.  He  neber 
wanted  no  money  as  wasn't  his'n,  and  'Zeke  haint  a  gwine  to 
sleep  more'n  five  hour  a  night  'fore  he  pay  back  dat  ar'  fifty 
dollar." 

"Fifty  dollars  haint  nothin'  to  him,"  said  the  woman. 
"  He's  plenty  o'  money." 

"  I  knows,"  answered  the  black,  "  and  dat  am  all  he'm  got. 
And  leff  me  tell  you,  missus,  —  I  don't  mean  no  'fence  ;  but 
now  dat  massa  am  gone,  it  comes  outer  me  to  luck  arter  de 
fambly,  — you  wont  git  Missy  Rachel  to  'pologize  to  de 
young  'Squar*  for  nufiin',— 'case  'Zeke  wont  'gree  to  it;  and, 
—  you  yered  what  I  telled  him,  —  ef  he  eber  sots  eyes  on  her 
a^in,  I'll  hab  de  black  soul  out  ob  his  body,  —  I  will." 

The  old  negro  accompanied  this  energetic  speech  with  an- 


88  O  N     T  II  E     B  O  R  D  E  R  . 

other  energetic  gesture  directed  to  the  back  of  the  innocent 
mule  ;  but,  instead  of  oifending,  his  remarks  seemed  only  to 
alarm  his  mistress.  She  was  evidently  accustomed  to  being 
ruled  by  a  stronger  will,  and  not  unused  to  having  such  con- 
trol asserted  even  by  the  old  black.  In  a  subdued  but  some- 
what petulant  tone  she  asked,  "  And  what  has  he  done  that 
ye  sh'ud  speak  so  uv  Mr.  Weddington,  as  was  allers  sich  a 
friend  to  yer  master,  —  allers,  ever  sence  he  come  to  live  in 
the  new  mansion  ?  " 

"  Wall,"  said  the  negro,  "  ef  Missy  Rachel  hasn't  tell'd 
you,  'Zeke  can't ;  but  if  he'd  sot  by  when  the  'Squar'  done  it, 
he'd  a  wrung  his  neck,  —  wrung  it  quicker'n  he  wrung  de  ole 
rooster's  dat  made  de  broth  for  massa's  lass  dinner." 

"  What  was  it,  Eachel  ?  "  said  the  elder  woman,  addressing 
the  younger,  who  until  now  had  sat  with  her  hood  drawn  over 
her  face,  apparently  unconscious  of  what  was  going  on  about 
her. 

Without  lifting  her  eyes,  she  answered,  —  "He  has  done 
nothing,  mother ;  he  has  said  what  no  honest  man  would 
say  to  a  woman,  —  what  gives  'Zekiel  a  right  to  detest  him  ! " 

"  You's  my  own  gal.  Missy  Rachel !  "  exclaimed  the  old  black, 
a  tear  glistening  in  his  eye,  and  rolling,  like  a  silver  bead, 
down  his  dark  visage  ;  "  you's  a  credit  to  yer  bringin'  up,  —  old 
'Zeke  hasn't  lubbed  you,  like  he  lubs  his  own  soul,  for  nuffin." 

The  young  woman  raised  her  eyes,  and  a  soft,  gentle,  almost 
tender  look,  came  into  her  face,  but  she  said  nothing ;  and 
the  rest  of  the  way  the  three  rode  along  in  silence. 


Meanwhile  the  people  at  the  little  church  had  scattered  to 
their  several  homes,  and  the  two  young  men,  in  a  richly-fur- 


THE     FUNERAL 


89 


nished  sleigh,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  gayly  caparisoned  horses, 
were  floundering  along  over  the  drifted  road,  on  the  way  to  a 
stately  mansion  at  the  head  of  the  valley.  For  a  time  they 
rode  on  in  silence ;  then  the  one  who  had  christened  himself 
Brad.  —  probably  short  for  Bradley  —  said  to  the  other, 
"  Wed.,  what  ar'  atween  ye  and  Kachel  ?  —  what  ha's  ye  said 
to  the  gal  as  has  so  riled  the  ole  darky  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Weddington,  "  that  yon  wouldn't  say 
to  any  pretty  woman  ;  —  told  her  she  is  handsome,. and  that  I 
would  be  glad,  now  her  father  is  dead,  to  do  her  a  service." 

"  If  she  paid  ye  the  price  ?  "  asked  the  other,  with  a  curi- 
ous smile. 

"■  Why,  yes.  I  didn't  say  that ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  under- 
stood." 

Brown  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then,  with  a  strong  savor 
of  contempt  in  his  voice,  he  said,  "  Well,  Weddington,  I  used 
ter  think  ye  a  decent  feller,  ginerally ;  but  I  begin  to  b'lieve 

ye's  a  d d  scoundrel.     Ef  ye  done  that,  with  the  old  man 

dead  in  the  house,  'taint  no  wonder  that  even  a  darky  dispises 
ye ! " 

The  other  started  as  if  stung  by  a  wasp,  and  said,  in  a  sud- 
den rage,  "  How  ?     What  is  that  you  say  ?  " 

"  'Taint  worth  sayin'  over,"  answered  Brown,  coolly. 
"Them  is  my  sentiments;  but  —  we  has  business  together, 
and  I  never  lets  words  come  atween  me  and  business." 

The  midnight  lightning  leaves  the  sky  of  a  deeper  black- 
ness ;  so  the  sudden  flash  which  then  lighted  up  the  face  of 
Weddington  left  it  darker  than  before.  A  close  observer 
would  have  seen  danger  in  the  look ;  but  Brown  was  not  a 
close  observer,  —  he  was  only  one  of  those  simple  souls  who 

8* 


90  ONTHEBORDER. 

go  through  the  world  seeing  nothing  larger  than  a  dollar,  or  a 
glass  of  whiskey ;  and  yet,  if  he  had  looked  ahove  his  eyes, 
even  he  might,  at  that  moment,  have  heheld,  suspended  over 
his  head,  the  sword  of  Damocles,  —  that  famous  weapon 
which,  were  it  not  of  most  wonderful  metal,  would  long 
ago  have  heen  worn  out  by  the  frequent  handling  of  simile- 
hunting  writers. 

Weddington's  voice,  when  he  spoke  again,  was  as  soft  as  the 
low  wind  of  summer,  or  as  an  April  snow-flake  when  embrac- 
ing a  pool  of  water.  "I've  fancied,  sometimes,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  liked  the  girl." 

"  Well,  p'raps  I  does,"  said  the  other,  slowly,  and  as  if  he 
preferred  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Then,  why  don't  you  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  may  hev  thought  uv  that ;  but  I  reckoned  ye  hed 
an  eye  to  her ;  and,  to  talk  squar,  I  feared  ye  mought  put  it 
atween  me  and  the  business." 

"  Pshaw !  you  ought  to  know  me  better,"  said  Weddington, 
as  if  hurt  in  a  sensitive  quarter.  "  Friendship  is  friendship, 
and  business  is  business.  Give  me  a  lien  on  the  other  boat, 
and  I'll  lend  you  another  thousand." 

"  Ye  will !  "  exclaimed  Brown,  his  recent  reserve  disappear- 
ing with  the  words.  "  It's  jest  what  I  wants  ;  for  the  floatin' 
debt  is  a-botherin'  me.  Will  ye  make  it  for  a  y'ar,  and  put  it 
all  in  black  and  white  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  extend  the  rest,  so  you'll  feel  easy." 

"  Well,  ye  is  a  trump  ! "  said  Brown,  with  enthusiasm. 
"  But,"  and  now  he  spoke  more  slowly,  as  if  he  had  some  la- 
tent doubts  of  Weddington's  sincerity,  "  does  ye  r'aUy  mean 
to  give  up  the  gal  ?  " 


THEFUNERAL.  91 

"  Give  her  up  ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  while  again  the  light- 
ning flashed,  leaving  his  face  again  in  deeper  darkness. 
"  You'd  think  so,  if  you'd  heard  her  last  night.  Seven  devils 
got  into  the  girl.  I  believe  she'd  have  turned  me  out  of 
doors,  man  as  I  am,  if  I'd  stayed  a  second  longer." 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "ye  has  the  impudence  uv  the 
devil,  or  ye  wouldn't  ha'  spoke  to  her  agin." 

"  Pshaw,  Brown,  you're  a  fool !  A  man  isn't  a  man  if  he 
can't  pocket  an  insult,"  rejoined  Weddington  ;  adding,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  as  if  he  feared  so  sublime  a  sentiment  might 
not  be  appreciated  by  his  companion,  "  from  a  woman." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  little  time  ;  then  the  younger  broke  the 
silence.     "When  do  you  mean  to  pop  the  question  ?  " 

"Not  just  yit;  I'd  best  wait  till  the  old  man's  cold  in  his 
grave.  To  ax  her  now  mought  look  like  crowdin'  the 
mourners." 

"  Perhaps  it  might,"  replied  Weddington ;  "but  you  mustn't 
put  it  off  too  long.  That  feUow,  Jordan,  has  an  eye  upon 
her.  He's  a  dreamy  fool ;  but  he  has  wonderful  power  over 
the  girl." 

"  Pshaw !  he  can't  hev  no  showin'  with  a  stylish  gal  like 
Rachel;  but  I  wont  put  the  thing  off  too  long.  Will  ye 
make  them  papers  out  to-day,  so  I  kin  go  back  in  the  morn- 


in'  ( 


5  9  » 


"  Yes,  and  give  you  the  money." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  mansion,  —  one  of  the 
better  class  of  Southern  houses,  and  located  on  a  gentle 
knoll  which  overlooked  a  fine  plantation  of  a  thousand  acres. 
A  servant  was  at  once  despatched  for  a  justice,  and,  that 
functionary  shortly  arriving,   a  paper  was   soon  drawn   up. 


92  ONTHEBORDER. 

signed,  sealed,  and  witnessed,  which  recounted,  in  the  ver 
bose  language  of  the  law,  that  "  Bradley  Brown,  for,  and  in 
consideration  of-  the  sum  of  four  thousand  dollars,  lawful 
money  of  the  United  States  (the  amount  of  the  previous 
debt  and  of  the  new  obligation),  to  him  in  hand  that  day 
paid  by  Jackson  Weddington,  did  sell,  assign,  transfer,  and 
make  over  to  the  said  Weddington,  as  his  rightful  property, 
the  two .  stern- wheel  steamers,  then  lying  and  being  at  the 
wharf  in  the  town  of  Paintville,  in  the  State  of  Kentucky, 
and  intended  to  be  employed  in  the  navigation  of  a  certain 
river,  called  the  Big  Sandy ;  which  said  steamers  were  the 
sole  and  only  property  of  the  said  Brown  ;  and  were  named 
and  known,  as,  respectively,  ^  The  Transfer,'  and  ^  The  Pot- 
win/  The  said  sale  to  vest  the  ownership  of  said  '  stern- 
wheelers  '  in  the  said  Weddington  absolutely,  providing 
the  said  Brown  failed,  within  one  year  from  the  date  of  said 
instrument,  to  repay  to  said  Weddington  the  aforesaid  sum 
of  four  thousand  dollars,  with  interest  thereon,  at  the  legal 
rate  current  in  the  said  Commonwealth  of  Kentucky." 

When  this  was  done,  and  the  justice  had  gone,  the  two 
men  sat  down  at  a  table  with  a  decanter  of  brandy  before 
them.  Toward  daybreak  they  rose,  and  Brown  staggered  to 
his  bed  with  the  contents  of  the  decanter  in  his  head,  and 
a  huge  roll  of  bank-notes  in  his  pocket.  Brandy  is  com- 
monly thought  a  bad  thing  for  any  but  sickly  people,  and 
money  a  good  thing,  —  so  good  that  sick  or  well  can  take  it 
in  the  largest  doses  ;  and  yet.  Brown  might  better  have  swal- 
lowed all  that  was  set  before  him,  brandy  and  decanter  to 
boot,  than  have  gone  to  bed  with  those  bank-notes  in  his 
pocket. 


T  H  E     F  U  N  E  R  A  L  .  93 

Late  one  night,  a  week  afterward,  the  same  two  sat  to- 
gether at  the  same  table,  with  the  same  brandy-bottle  before 
them.  Weddington  drank  sparingly,  —  temperance  is  one 
of  the  cardinal  virtues,  and  he  was  a  temperate  man,  —  but 
he  plied  his  friend  with  glass  after  glass  of  the  red  fluid. 
"Pshaw!"  he  said,  "don't  run  at  the  first  fire.     Try  again, 

*  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady.' " 

"  But,  I  tell  ye,"  replied  Brown,  speaking  thickly,  —  for 
brandy,  taken  freely,  stiffens  the  tongue,  as  starch  stiffens  a 
shirt-collar,  — "  she  refused  me  plump,  and  said,  squar  out, 
I  hadn't  money  enough." 

"  Oh  ho ! "  exclaimed  Weddington,  his  eyes  emitting  a 
flash  which,  for  a  moment,  encircled  his  dark  face  with  a 
halo  not  altogether  saintly.  "  Sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter  ? 
Ask  her  again  in  a  fortnight,  and  I'll  bet  a  hat  she'll  say 

*  Yes,'  and  thank  you." 

"  Why  should  she  ?    I  carn't  make  a  fortin'  in  a  fortnight." 

"But  I  can  make  her  think  you  have  one  in  a  day.  I'll 
set  the  gossips  upon  her  before  the  week  is  out,  and  make 
her  believe  you  roll  in  money." 

"  Xo,  no,  Wed.,  that  wouldn't  be  squar  dealin' ;  and  fa'r 
play  ar'  a  jewul.  I  never  sail  under  false  colors  ;  besides, 
she'd  find  it  out,  and  the  devil  'ud  be  to  pay  arterwards," 
answered  Brown,  wlio,  though  far  gone  from  original  right- 
eousness, was  not  wholly  given  over  to  evil. 

"  Pshaw,  you're  a  ibol ! "  said  ,the  other.  "  Suppose  she 
does  find  it  out,  she'll  not  blame  you.  The  sin  will  be  mine, 
—  you'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  No,  no ;  I  carn't  'gree  to  it,  Wed.     Ye  mean  right,  and 


94  ONTHE     BORDER. 

'twould  be  all  for  my  advantage ;   but,  if  I  let  ye  do  it,  I 
couldn't  never  look  the  gal  in  the  face." 

"  You're  more  nice  than  wise.  But  never  mind  ;  pluck  up 
courage,  and  ask  her  again  in  a  fortnight." 

"Well,    I   will,"  answered   Brown,  nerving   himself  with 
another  glass  of  brandy.     But,  honor,  Ned !     Don't  ye  give  . 
the  gal  no  false  notions." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  his  friend,  "  I'm  not  in  the  prac- 
tice of  lying,  —  unless  something  can  be  gained  by  it." 

An  hour  afterward  the  two  men  went  to  their  beds,  — 
Brown  tacking  from  side  to  side,  as  he  was  swayed  by  the 
troubled  sea  of  fire  in  his  stomach,  and  Weddington  going 
straight  on,  with  the  firm  and  steady  stride  of  a  man  who 
is  moved  by  a  resolute  purpose. 


CHAPTER  y. 

Rachel's    iviarriage 


FORTNIGHT  has  gone  by,  and  late  at  night  a 
ruddy  fire  is  blazing  through  the  windows  of  Irving's 
cabin.  A  man  opens  the  door,  and  pauses  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  his  hand  upon  the  latch ;  then,  with  a 
slow,  swaying  step,  he  turns  towards  the  highway.  He  stops 
in  the  road,  and  looks  up  at  the  ruddy  moon,  which  is  silver- 
ing the  silent  snow,  and  drawing  strange  pictures  in  the 
fields  where  the  trees  cast  their  shadows ;  then  he  sinks  to 
the  ground,  his  head  falls  upon  his  breast,  and  a  great  cry 
goes  from  him.  It  is  the  cry  of  a  soul  waking  from  a  long 
dream,  —  waking  to  find  that  all  is  cold  and  dark  in  the 
universe. 

Soon  a  man  glides  from  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin, 
and  comes  to  the  one  in  the  highway.  He  lays  his  hand 
lightly  on  his  arm,  and  in  a  deep  voice  says,  — 

"  Don't  you  tuck  it  so  to  heart,  Massa  John ;  don't  you. 
De  good  Lord  am  leflf  in  the  heabens  !  " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  says  the  other,  rising.  "  He  is  there  ; 
but  his  face  is  behind  the  clouds.  Good-night,  'Zekiel ;  "  and 
with  his  swaying  step,  which  now  is  almost  a  stagger,  he 
goes  again  slowly  forward. 

(95) 


96  ONTHEBORDER. 

The  other  follows,  and  in  a  moment  speaks  j  his  voice  now 
being  even  yet  gentler. 

"  No,  no,  not  '■  good-night,'  Massa  John  !  Old  'Zeke  wont 
leab  you  now,  when  it'm  so  dark  dat  you  can't  eben  see  de 
Lord's  hand  afore  you." 

He  said  no  more,  but  w^ound  his  arm  about  the  other's 
neck,  and  so  the  two  —  the  black,  and  the  white  —  stag- 
gered along  through  the  drifted  snow-banks.  At  last  the 
white  man  paused  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  tree  which  cast 
its  broad  branches  over  the  desolate  highway. 

"'Zekiel,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "yow  love  me,  and  — 
Eachel  ?  " 

"  Lub  you  ?  Massa  John  !  "  exclaimed  the  negro. '  "  Why, 
you'm  my  chillen  —  my  chillen  !  " 

"  Then  watch  over  her,  —  watch  over  her,  day  and  night. 
It  may  be  that  God  has  put  her  very  soul  in  your  keep- 
ing." 

"What  does  you  mean,  Massa  John?  What  hurt  kin 
come  to  Missy  Eachel  ?  "  asked  the  negro,  his  voice  trembling 
^vith  a  sudden  emotion. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  only  feel  she's  in  danger.  It's  in  the  air. 
I  scent  it  as  the  bloodhound  scents  a  panther.  Some  terrible 
thing  is  following  her." 

As  the  moonlight  fell  on  the  old  man's  face,  it  was  of  a 
blue,  livid  color. 

"I  knows,  I  knows,  Massa  John,"  he  said,  earnestly. 
"  You  hab  a  mazin'  feelin'  ob  tings  as  can't  be  seed,  but 
am  a  comin'.  And  can't  you  scent  de  way  it'll  come  ?  Can't 
you  do  dat,  Massa  John  ?     Can't  you  do  dat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  from  Weddington." 


Rachel's    marriage.  97 

"  De  good  Lord ! ''  and  the  negro  started  back  in  sudden 
terror.     ^'  Why,  lie'm  her  own  "  — 

"I  know,"  said  Jordan,  "and  I  wish  I  could  tell  him  all  I 
know.     It  might  save  her." 

The  negro's  superstitious  confidence  in  the  prescience  of 
the  white  man  had  overcome  him  at  the  sudden  announce- 
ment ;  but  now  his  natural  bravery  and  trust  in  God  camo 
back  to  him. 

"  Don't  you  say  a  word,  Massa  Jolin.  Not  a  word.  Leab 
it  in  de  grabe  along  ob  pore  massa.  He  suftered  enuif,  — 
don't  left'  it  come  outer  Missy  Rachel.  And  don't  you  worry 
^bout  de  young  'Squar'.  He'll  neber  come  nigh  her.  He'm 
as  feared  ob  me  as  he  am  ob  de  debil.  I  seed  it  in  his  eye  at 
de  meetin'." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,  ^Zekiel.  He'll  burrow  under  ground. 
That  is  the  way  of  such  men." 

"  Under  or  'bove  ground,  he  wont  root  ole  'Zeke  out  ob  de 
hole,"  and  the  old  man  laughed  at  his  own  grotesque  imagery. 
"  He'll  freeze  to  Missy  Eachel  loike  death  froze  to  de  dead 
herrin'.  De  Lord  haint  leff  him  outlast  all  ob  his  kin,  and 
lib  dese  nigh  onto  eighty  year,  for  nuffin', —  it  am  fur  Missy 
Rachel !  "  and  here  the  old  man  threw  back  his  broad  chest, 
and  drew  up  his  great  frame,  till  he  looked  like  some  gigantic 
statue  moulded  out  of  iron,  and  suddenly  dropped  there  in 
the  shadows. 

"Don't  be  too  sure,  don't  be  too  sure,  'Zekiel ;  there's 
something  deeper  here  than  you  reckon.  To-night  she's  told 
me  that  she  is  to  marry  Brown,  and  to  live  like  a  lady.  AVho 
told  her  Brown  was  rich  ?     Nobody  else  thinks  so." 

"Why,  bless  you,  it  ant  so,  Massa  John!  'Zeke  kin  read, 


98  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  K  D  E  R  . 

and  he  hab  seed  de  papers  dat  make  ober  dem  two  stern- 
wheelers  to  Missy  Rachel." 

A  singular  light  flashed  from  Jordan's  eyes ;  it  was  gone 
in  a  moment,  and  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  but  in 
his  usual  manner,  "  I  see  it  all,  —  she  can't  be  saved,  —  she 
will  have  to  suffer.  Oh,  the  ways  of  God  are  wonderful ! 
The  father  plunged  into  unheard-of  crimes,  because  he  would 
be  a  gentleman ;  and  now  the  daughter  must  drink  of  the 
bitter  cup,  because  she  would  be  a  lady.  Thus  He  visits  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children !  Only  suffering  will 
wash  out  the  evil  she  has  taken  from  him,  —  so  she  must  go 
through  the  fire.  I  see  it  all ;  it  is  for  this  that  she  turns 
from  me,  and  goes  to  that  drunken  fellow.  And,  0  Father ! " 
and  here  he  looked  up,  and  over  his  face  came  a  radiance 
that  was  not  of  the  moonlight,  "  forgive  me,  if,  for  one  mo- 
ment, I  have  questioned." 

Along,  with  his  undoubting  faith  in  the  intuitions  of  the 
young  man,  the  negro  had  a  strong  veneration  for  his  singular 
but  elevated  character.  This  veneration  usually  led  him  to 
listen  in  silence  to  the  strange  rhapsodies  which  often  broke 
up  the  other's  ordinary  speech,  making  it  flow  like  a  moun- 
tain brook,  rippling  over  rocks  and  pebbles  ;  but  now  anxiety 
for  his  young  mistress  gave  him  utterance. 

"What  am  it  you  see,  Massa  John?"  he  said.  "What  am 
it?" 

"  What  I  should  have  seen  an  hour  ago,  —  the  hand  of 
God,  —  which  neither  you  nor  I  can  turn  aside  or  hinder." 

"  But  mus'  de  pore  chile  suffer  ?  Mus'  she  go  fru  de  fire 
'fore  she  kin  come  out  cl'ar,  and  fit  for  de  Lord  ?  " 

"  She  must.     I  never  saw  her  soul  till  to-night.     At  hot- 


Rachel's   MARRIAGE.  99 

torn  it  is  pure  and  clear,  but  it  is  crusted  over  with  the  same 
passions  tliat  ruined  her  father," 

"  And  mus'  de  great  sin  come  onto  her  ?  "  asked  the  negro, 
his  huge  frame  bowing  down,  as  if  a  world  were  suddenly 
thrust  upon  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  keep  her  free  ob  dat,  Massa 
John  !  keej)  her  free  ob  dat !  Tell  her  —  go  back,  and  tell 
her  to-night !  'Zeke  would  —  only  it  would  break  his  old 
heart." 

"  No,  no,  'Zekiel,  tell  her  nothing.  She'll  be  kept  from 
that,  if  you  are  with  her.  The  young  'Squire  has  over  her 
the  power  that  a  snake  has  over  a  bird  ;  but  he  can't  use  it  if 
a  stronger  love  is  round  her.  So  you  keep  near  her,  and  say 
nothing.  Leave  the  rest  to  God.  Now,  good-night,  — 
mother'U  be  w^aiting  for  me." 

"  Good-night,  and  bress  you,  Massa  John  !      De  Lord  bress 

you!" 

Then  the  two  went  opposite  ways ;  but  now  it  was  the 
young  man  who  walked  with  a  firm,  manly  stride,  and  the 
negro  who  staggered  along  under  a  load  he  had  not  the  power 
of  lifting. 

Before  another  fortnight  had  gone  away,  Rachel  Irving 
had  become  Eachel  Brown,  and,  with  her  mother,  had  ex- 
changed a  mean  hut  of  logs  for  a  comfortable  house  in  the 
village.  There  the  older  woman  soon  forgot  her  grief  for  her 
husband ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  feeling  had  never  been 
very  deeply  rooted.  At  best,  it  was  only  a  wretched  com- 
pound of  regret  for  a  man  whom  custom  had  made  tolerable, 
and  a  selfish  concern  for  her  own  future, —  in  which  the  latter 
feeling  was  much  the  larger  ingredient.      But  now  her  future 


100  ON     THE     BORDER. 

seemed  assured ;  and  she  was  too  inucli  engrossed  in  the 
excitements  of  her  new  life  to  waste  a  thought  on  the  dead 
man  who  had  for  so  many  j^ears  been  to  her  so  strange  a 
mystery.  The  world  was  giving  her  all  that  it  has  to  give  to 
such  shallow  natures,  —  attendants,  friends,  fashion.  When 
she  walked  she  had  velvety  carpets  under  her  feet ;  when  she 
slept,  a  gorgeous  canopy  over  her  head ;  and,  when  she  took 
an  airing,  a  gilded  carriage,  in  which  to  flaunt  the  faded 
charms  that  had  so  long  been  wandering  in  the  wilderness. 
What  more  could  a  reasonable  woman,  on  the  shady  side  of 
forty,  ask  for  ?  To  do  her  justice,  she  did  not  ask  for  more. 
She  revelled  in  an  excess  of  happiness.  What  a  pity  it  is 
that  such  women  cannot  live  here  and  roll  in  luxury  forever ! 
Here  they  do  some  good,  —  help  to  support  those  useful  mem- 
bers in  society,  the  pastry  cooks  and  the  men-milliners,  — 
and  they  can  be  of  no  possible  use  in  any  other  quarter  of 
the  universe. 

But  what  of  Rachel  ?  How  did  she  take  to  this  life  of  gilt 
and  gingerbread?  Just  as  if  she  had  been  born  to  it. 
Before  she  had  been  a  fortnight  married,  she  lent  more  grace 
to  a  moire  antique,  cut  in  an  ancient  fashion,  than  many  a 
town  belle  lends  to  the  most  modern  costume,  just  from  Paris. 
She  did  the  honors  of  her  husband's  house,  and  spent  his 
money  beautifull3^  He  was  much  away  ;  for  he  was  master 
of  one  of  his  "  stern- wheelers,"  and  with  it  made  semi-weekly 
trips  to  Cincinnati  and  Louisville  ;  but  that  made  no  differ- 
ence to  his  wife.  With  visits  and  balls  and  parties,  she  got 
along  very  well  without  him,  —  in  fact,  better  without  than 
with  him  ;  for  a  troublesome  fondness  which  he  had  for  a  full 
decanter  made  him,  at  times,  too  boisterous  for  the  refined 


It  A  C  H  E  L    S     -^I  A  R  R  I  A  G  E  .  101 

society  of  the  high-bred  people  with  whom  Rachel  was  now 
familiar. 

During  the  first  three  months  of  her  marriage  she  saw 
nothing  of  Weddington  ;  though  her  husband  often  spoke  of 
him,  and  she  learned  that  they  had  intimate  business  rela- 
tions. Then,  one  day,  they  had  an  appointment  together, 
and  Weddington  oame  to  the  house  just  in  the  edge  of  the 
evening.  She  was  in  the  parlor  when  he  entered.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  over  her  face  came  the  look  it  wore  that  winter 
day,  when  she  stood  by  the  grave  of  her  father.  Rising  sud- 
denly to  her  feet,  with  the  air  of  a  queen,  she  swept  out  of 
the  apartment. 

The  next  day  her  husband  —  then  in  a  sober  mood  — 
said  to  her,  — 

"Rachel,  I'd  like  ter  hev  ye  civil  to  Weddington.  I 
knows  he's  spoken  to  ye  as  he  ortent  to  speak  to  no  'ooman  ; 
but  he's  sorry  for  it,  —  and  if  ye  haint,  he  mought  trouble 
me  ;  he  mought  ax  me  fur  money  as  I  can't  pay  him  till  times 
is  better." 

Poor  Rachel  had  already  learned  that  gold  can  gild  bed- 
room and  parlor  furniture,  but  not  the  coarse  natures  of  even 
those  who  love  it  best ;  j'et  until  now  she  had  not  suspected 
her  husband  of  downright  baseness.  A  quick  spasm  shot 
across  her  face  ;  but  she  only  said,  — 

"  Well,  let  him  come,  if  you  would  have  your  wife  insulted 
in  your  own  house." 

"  Pshaw  !  he'll  give  you  nary  insult.  He  mought  do  that 
to  a  gal  as  had  no  father ;  but  he'd  be  afeared  to  say  a  word 
to  my  wife.  If  he  did,  I'd  have  his  heart's  blood,  and  he 
knows  it,  —  money  or  no  money." 


102  O  N     T  II  E     li  O  R  D  K  U  . 

The  blunt  sincerity  of  the  man  reassured  Eachel,  and  she 
said,  — 

"  Well,  let  him  come  ;  I  have  no  fear." 

He  did  come,  and  the  door  ouce  open,  he  came  often  ;  but, 
for  a  long  time,  always  on  some  business  with  her  husband. 
At  last  he  called  one  day  when  Brown  was  away  on  the 
river.  Ezekiel,  who  was  a  sort  of  major-domo  to  the  estab- 
lishment, saw  him  coming,  and  quietly  took  a  seat  outside  the 
parlor  door,  in  the  hall-way.  He  did  not  listen  to  their  con- 
versation, —  he  did  not  care  to,  —  but,  somehow,  the  old 
fellow  crossed  the  long  bridge  of  years,  and  fancied  that  he 
was  carrying  her  about  in  his  arms,  as  he  was  used  to  in  her 
childhood.  Weddington  did  not  stay  long,  but  when  he 
left,  Eachel  bowed  him  politely  out  of  the  parlor,  and,  as  he 
closed  the  outer  door,  she  turned  to  Ezekiel,  and  said,  — 

"  'Zekiel,  do  jou  think  this  a  cold  day  ?  " 

"  Cold,  Missy  Eachel !  "  echoed  Ezekiel.  "  It'm  de  hottest 
day  ob  de  whole  summer.     I'm  a'most  roasted." 

"  So  am  I ;  but  the  'Squire  complained  of  the  cold,  —  said 
he  was  nearly  frozen  ;  and  he  did  seem  to  be  all"  of  a  shiver." 

"  He !  he ! "  laughed  the  old  black ;  but,  as  his  mistress 
went  up  the  stairway,  this  natural  expression  of  his  race 
changed  into  quite  another  part  of  speech.  ''Ho!  ho!"  he 
said  to  himself,  in  an  undertone,  a  look  of  curious  wonder 
coming  on  his  face.  "  It  did  fix  him  !  What  a  wonderful 
sight  inter  t'ings  Massa  John  hab  !  I  b'lieve  he  know  all  de 
secrets  ob  creation.  Jess  leff  dat  ar  Squar'  come  yere  often 
enufi",  and  I'll  froze  him  inter  a  icicle." 

The  'Squire  did  come  often  enough,  but  was  not  frozen, 
though  the  winter  came  and  went,  and  his  visits  grew  all  the 


K  A  c  II  el's    ma  K  It  I  A  a  K  .  103 

wliile  more  and  more  frequent.  He  never  came  when  Brown 
was  away,  but  Ezekiel  took  his  seat  in  the  hall,  and  both  by 
his  manner,  and  by  that  subtle  will-power  which  Jordan  had 
told  him  to  exert,  tried  to  give  the  house  the  atmosphere  of  a 
refrigerator.  Weddington  may  have  felt  this,  but  it  did  not 
hinder  his  coming ;  and  yet  who  knows  but  the  great  love  of 
that  faithful  heart  may  have  encircled  her  young  soul  with  a 
wall  of  ice,  and  so  saved  it  from  the  clutch  of  the  spoiler  ? 
There  is  much  in  heaven  and  earth,  reader,  that  you  and  I 
have  not  yet  fathomed ;  and  this  secret  of  the  subtle  power 
of  the  human  will  is  one  of  nature's  deepest  mysteries. 

Mrs.  Irving,  as  I  have  intimated,  was,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  perfectly  contented.  Slie  thought  she  had  all  that 
her  heart  could  wish  ;  but  at  last  there  came  a  slight  ripple 
on  the  calm  sea  of  her  enjoyment.  One  of  the  neighbors  set 
up  a  carriage.  There  had  been  carriages  in  Paintville  before ; 
but  none  like  this,  with  a  footman's  board,  and  a  driver's  seat 
perched  high  up  in  the  air,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
an  orthodox  pulpit.  She  must  have  just  such  a  carriage,  or 
die  of  chagrin,  and  —  go  back  to  be  buried  beside  her  hus- 
band in  the  vulgar  graveyard  in  the  wilderness.  Kew  horses, 
too,  they  must  have ;  for  one  of  theirs  was  spavined,  and  both 
had  bobtails,  and  necks  that  needed  a  constant  check-rein. 
She  wanted  animals  with  long  tails,  nimble  legs,  and  that 
would  hold  up  their  heads  among  folks.  Such  could  not  be 
had  about  Paintville,  though  one-half  of  the  district  grew 
nothing  but  mules  and  horses.  They  must  send  to  Cincinnati 
for  a  complete  turn-out.  She  lay  siege  to  Rachel ;  and  Rachel, 
after  some  hesitation,  —  for  she  knew  he  was  up  to  his  ears  in 
debt,  —  lay  siege  to  her  husband.     Brown  objected;  Rachel 


104  ONTHE     BORDER. 

persisted;  and  at  last  he  said,  —  he  had  just  taken  an  extra 
glass  or  two  of  brandy,  —  "  You  sliall  hev  them.  I'll  fix  the 
thing  somehow ;  if  I  don't,  I'll  be  d — d." 

His  boat  lay  at  the  wharf,  ready  to  sail  at  evening ;  and  it 
was  at  once  decided  that  Ezekiel  should  go  along,  and  take 
charge  of  the  new  equipage.  The  old  black  heard  the  sum- 
mons with  absolute  consternation.  He  stuttered,  stammered, 
and  went  through  all  manner  of  guttural  gyrations ;  but,  at 
last,  he  managed  to' eject  the  words,  — "I  can't.  Missy  Eachel. 
I  haint  well ;  I'se  too  ole  ;  I  neber  was  so  fur  away  in  all 
my  life." 

He  was  told  that  that  was  a  good  reasoli  why  he  should  go, 
—  he  would  see  the  world,  and  he  ought  to  see  something  of 
it  before  he  died.  Then  he  grew  suddenly  lame,  —  "  de 
rheumatics  was  a  troublin'  him  bad ; "  but  Eachel  had  no 
mercy  on  so  sudden  an  attack ;  and  finally,  looking  her  full 
in  the  face,  the  old  man  said,  — 

"Wall,  Missy  Rachel,  'Zeke'll  go,  on  one^  condition,  and 
only  on  dat ;  and,  if  you  don't  promise  dat,  dey'll  hab  to  tote 
him  out  feet  foremose ;  and  den  he  wont  go." 

"What  is  that,  'Zekiel?" 

"  Dat  you  don't  speak  to  Massa  Weddington  while  'Zeke'm 
away ;  and  dat,  if  he  come  to  de  house,  you  send  word  you'se 
'gaged." 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  speak  to  him  ?  "  asked  Eachel,  in 
a  tone  of  only  slight  impatience  ;  for  she  was  accustomed  to 
the  freedom  of  the  old  man,  and  loved  him  with  some  of  the 
great  affection  had  for  her. 

"  'Case,  when  'Zeke  am  yere,  de  Lord  kin  tuck  keer  ob  his 
little  gal ;  but,  if  'Zeke  am  'w^ay,  p'raps  de  Lord  can't  do  it." 


R  A  C  H  i:  L  '  S     51  A  K  R  I  A  G  K  .  106 

She  promised;  and  then,  but  with  a  heavy  heart,  the  old 
man  started  on  the  journey. 

Tlie  boat  went  down  the  river  by  night,  stopping  only  to 
take  in  and  land  passengers  and  freight,  at  Catlettsburg,  —  a 
small  town  at  the  junction  of  the  Big  Sandy  with  the  Ohio. 
The  old  man  was  accustomed  to  going  early  to  bed,  and  he 
had  not  been  long  on  board  before  he  sought  out  his  berth, 
and  fell  into  uneasy  slumbers. 

His  life  had  been  one  long  prayer,  and  often  by  day  he 
would  lift  up  his  voice  "  to  Him  who  dwelleth  in  the  heav- 
ens ;  "  but  it  was  only  at  night  that  he  could  come  so  near  to 
God  as  to  talk  to  liini  as  one  friend  talks  to  another.  Then, 
something  in  the  stillness  and  darkness  seemed  to  open  the 
gates  of  his  being,  and  to  let  into  his  soul  the  unseen  world, 
whose  pulses  thrill  with  the  heart-throbs  of  the  Great  Au- 
thor of  the  universe.  But  this  night  he  prayed ;  and  the 
golden  gates  turned  not  on  their  hinges.  All  about  him  was 
darkness,  and  a  tliick  shadow  glided  in  between  him  and  his 
Maker.  At  last  it  took  shape,  —  huge,  weird,  unearthly, 
—  and  its  form  was  that  of  Weddington!  A  blazing  fire 
was  in  its  eyes,  and  its  long  arms  were  reached  out  to  clutch 
a  sleeping  victim.  The  victim  was  Rachel.  The  old  man 
uttered  a  low  cry,  and  with  that  cry,  which  held  in  its  bosom 
the  mighty  breath  of  prayer,  the  figure  fiided.  Then,  in  its 
place,  came  another,  —  a  dark,  silent  man,  wrapped  about 
with  grave-clothes.  An  unutterable  look  was  in  his  hollow 
eyes,  and  with  his  skeleton  hand  he  pointed  southward. 
"  Go,"  he  said.     "  Upon  the  wind !     She  is  in  danger  ! " 

With  a  sudden  start,  the  old  man  awoke,  and,  springing 
out  of  bed,  threw  on  his  clothing.     He  went  on  deck;  the 


1(16 


()  X     T  II  I.     IJ  <)  li  I)  K  i; 


boat  was  just  rounding  to  at  Catlettsburg,  and,  liidden  by 
the  darkness,  he  stepped  off  upon  the  landing.  In  a  few 
hours  the  consort  of  the  "Potwin"  came  in  on  her  return  trip. 
Tlie  old  man  went  on  board,  and  about  an  hour  after  noon 
was  again  at  Paint ville.  Springing  ashore,  he  hurried  to  the 
house  of  Each  el. 

He  entered  softly,  and,  the  parlor  door  being  ajar,  had  a 
view  of  the  inmates.  They  were  seated  on  the  sofa.  His 
arm  was  about  her  waist,  his  hot  breath  in  her  nostrils ;  and 
she  was  struggling  in  his  grasp,  as  a  tired  bird  struggles  in 
the  net  of  the  fowler.  The  old  man  looked  for  but  a  moment, 
then  with  one  bound  he  was  upon  them.  Lifting  Wedding- 
ton  in  his  brawny  arms,  he  threw  him,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
man  of  cork,  out  of  the  open  window.  Then  Rachel  fell  at 
his  feet,  clasped  his  knees,  and  cried  out,  — 

"  0  'Zekiel !  'Zekiel !    God  has  sent  you  ! " 

He  lifted  her  up,  and  drew  her  closely  to  him  on  the  sofa. 
She  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck,  put  her  soft  cheek 
against  his  ;  and  so  they  sat  there  an  hour  together.  When 
he  got  up  to  go  away,  he  said,  — 

"  My  little  gal,  say  nuffin'  ob  dis.  If  massa  should  yere 
it,  he'd  hab  his  life.     Leab  it  all  to  ole  'Zeke." 

In  a  few  days  Brown  returned  from  Cincinnati.  He  had 
missed  Ezekiel,  and  had  concluded  he  had  not  gone  on  board ; 
but  he  was  rather  glad  of  that,  for  it  gave  him  an  excuse  for 
not  buying  the  turn-out.  He  had  not  been  long  at  home, 
however,  before  he  heard  of  the  old  man's  assault  upon 
Weddington.  Boiling  with  rage,  he  went  to  Ezekiel,  and 
demanded  to  know  why  he  had  laid  his  hand  upon  his  best 
friend. 


U  A  0  H  K  L  '  S     M  A  li  U  I  A  O  K  .  107 

"  Don't  you  'member,  massa,"  said  the  old  man,  with  im- 
mense deference,  "what  T  say  to  de  young  'Squar'  dat  day 
Massa  Irving  was  buried  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Eberyting;  'case  'Zeke  allers  keep  his  w^ord.  You  sees, 
when  you'se  to  liome,  you  rules  de  house ;  but  when  you'm 
awa}',  ole  'Zeke,  he'm  de  massa.  Den  he  neber  leffs  de  young 
'Squar'  show  his  face  yere  'cept  on  good  behavior.  Wall,  tie 
lass  time  he  come,  'Zeke  didn't  like  his  looks,  — he'm  allers 
stuck-up,  you  knows,  —  so  he  jess  up  and  frowed  him  out  ob 
de  winder." 

With  tliis  Brown  exploded :  "  You  d  d  nigger,  I'll 
teach  you  manners !    You  shall  hev  fifty  lashes." 

Ezokiel  heard  this  with  perfect  coolness,  but  Brown  set 
about  putting  the  threat  in  execution.  Rachel,  however, 
learning  of  his  intention,  told  him  all ;  and  this  gave  another 
turn  to  the  proceedings.  Instead  of  scoring  the  old  black, 
the  whip  made  acquaintance  with  the  back  of  Weddington. 
Meeting  him  in  the  public  street,  Brown  left  him  there  so 
badly  beaten  as  to  be  incapable  of  motion. 

Disaster  quickly  followed.  The  boats  were  seized  for  the 
debt ;  and  Brown's  splendid  furniture  went  under  the  ham- 
mer. In  one  day  he  was  reduced  from  comparative  affluence 
to  abject  poverty.     But,  to  do  him  justice,  he  bore  up  bravely. 

"  Never  mind,  Rachel,"  he  said.  "  I  hev  health  and 
strength  ;  you  shill  hev  another  kerridge.  Go  back,  for  a 
time,  to  the  old  cabin  in  the  woods,  and  I'll  go  outer  the 
Ohio.     In  a  y'ar  I'll  be  on  m}--  feet  agin." 

So  Rachel  went  back  to  her  father's  mean  hut ;  and  so 
ended  her  short  dream  of  living  like  a  lady. 


CHAPTER     VI. 


A     WINTER    NIGHT. 


HE  winter  of  1860-61  was  approaching,  and  it  came 
on  darkly  to  those  two  women,  who,  with  the  old 
black,  were  now  the  only  tenants  of  the  lonely  hut 
among  the  mountains.  Weeks,  and  then  months, 
had  gone  away,  and  no  word,  and,  what  was  more  important, 
no  money  had  come  from  BrowTi ;  and  now,  with  the  cold 
weather  upon  them,  not  a  pound  of  provisions  was  in  the 
pantry  of  the  comfortless  dwelling.  Ezekiel,  in  the  early 
autumn,  had  got  in  fuel  enough  for  the  winter,  and  plastered 
up  the  chinks  which  else  had  let  volumes  of  cold  air  into  the 
scanty  lower  room  of  the  long-deserted  cabin;  but  even  he 
could  not  make  corn  grow  in  the  snow,  or  coin  money  from 
frozen  sand-hills.  When  the  single  barre}  of  meal  had  dwin- 
dled to  less  than  a  single  bushel,  he  went  for  assistance  to  the 
elder  Jordan,  —  the  younger  having  long  been  away,  follow- 
ing his  business  of  dealer  in  mules  and  horned  cattle.  The 
old  Scotchman  received  him  kindly ;  but  when  the  negro 
with  moistened  eye  and  a  stammering  tongue,  disclosed  the 
destitute  condition  of  tlie  two  friendless  women,  he  answered 
coldly,  — 

"  The  girl  should  not  have  marvied  such  a  worthless  fellow. 
(108) 


A    w  I  X  T  i:  R    N  k;  II  T .  109 

She  slioulcl  have  learned  to  work,  and  not  have  set  up  for 
a  lady.  But  I  will  not  see  you  starve.  How  much  bacon 
and  corn-meal  will  you  need  a  week  ?  " 

The  old  black  was  about  to  speak ;  but  the  words  stuck  in 
his  throat,  and,  brushing  a  tear  from  his  cheek,  he  turned  and 
walked  away,  leaving  the  cold  Scotchman  lost  in  wonder  at  a 
revelation  which  is  not  so  much  as  hinted  at  in  the  system  of 
narrow,  but  even-handed,  theology,  that  had  been  the  con- 
stant study  of  his  lifetime. 

This  was  at  the  close  of  a  stormy  day  in  mid- winter,  and 
the  fire-light  was  blazing  brightly  through  the  windows  of 
the  little  cabin  when  the  old  man  opened  the  door  and  entered 
the  desolate  apartment  where  dwelt  the  two  women.  Rachel 
was  spreading  the  table  for  their  scanty  evening  meal,  and 
her  mother,  lying  on  a  poorly-furnished  bed  in  the  corner, 
from  which  she  had  scarcely  risen  since  her  return  to  their 
meagre  home,  was  complaining,  in  low,  querulous  tones,  of 
the  hard  fate  that  had  reduced  her  to  the  wretched  fare  which 
Rachel  had  just  set  before  her,  when  the  old  black,  throwing 
off  his  ragged  top-coat,  turned  to  the  elder  woman  and  said, 
in  a  cheerful,  sympathizing  voice,  — 

"  Say  no  more  ob  dat,  missus.  De  Lord  knows  you's  had  a 
sorry  bad  time  ;  but  it'm  ober  now.  He'm  put  an  idee  inter 
ole  'Zeke's  head  that'll  J^eep  us  jess  like  we  was  in  clober 
all  de  way  till  de  nex'  harvest,  and  longer'n  dat,  if  'Zeke 
haint  able  to  get  in  a  good  crap.  So  you  say  no  more, 
missus.  ^Zeke'll  fix  de  libin'.  You  leab  him  alone  for  dat ; 
he  haint  read  de  Bible  day  and  night,  for  dese  more'n  twenty 
year,  widout  findin'  out  how  de  Lord  kin  manage  tings,  when 
we  gits  to  the  end  of  de  rope,  and  'eludes  we  is  gone  up, 
I'j 


110  ON     T  H  K     B  O  \l  1)  K  i;  . 

for  sartin.  And  jess  to  think  !  it  was  pore  massa  dat  lamed 
'Zeke  to  read,  and  so,  it'll  be  him,  dough  he'm  cold  in  de 
grahe,  as'U  be  savin'  dem  as  he  lubed  from  starvin',  and  not 
his  old  darky,  after  all !  He !  he  !  "  and  the  old  man  sat 
down  on  the  rude  settle  before  the  hearth,  rubbed  his  hands 
together,  and  stretched  his  huge  feet  out  to  the  fire,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  suddenly  come  into  a  fortune. 

The  elder  woman  raised  herself  up  in  the  bed,  and  said  in 
a  whining  tone, — 

"  Then,  old  Jordan'll  holp  us  !  I  allers  belt  he  was  the 
meanest,  stingiest  man  I  ever  know'd  ;  but  I'll  never  say 
ill  of  him  agin  —  never  agin." 

'•  Wall,  I  wouldn't,  missus,"  said  the  old  negro  ;  "  I  wouldn't ; 
'case  it  haint  de  Bible  way.  But  'taint  ole  man  Jordan  as'U 
holp  us  ;  it'm  de  Lord  ;  and  he'm  a  gwine  to  do  it  jess  loike 
he  done  wid  'Lijah  in  de  Bible  —  only  he  feed  'Lijah  wid  de 
ravens,  and  he'm  a  gwine  to  feed  us  wid  de  crows  —  de 
woolly  crows  !  He  !  he  !  "  And  he  laughed  heartil}"  at  his 
own  sorry  witticism. 

Rachel  came  to  him,  and  putting  her  hand  gently  on  his 
shoulder,  said,  — 

"  How  is  it,  'Zekiel  ?  If  Mr.  Jordan  is  not  willing  to 
help  us,  how  are  we  to  be  helped  ?  " 

The  old  man  drew  her  down  near  to  him  on  the  settle,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  — 

"Massa  Jordan  was  a  willin'  to  holp  us,  missy.  'Zeke 
tells  you  dat,  fur  he  don't  want  you  to  do  him  no  wrong,  — 
but  'Zeke  wouldn't  tuck  his  holp,  'case  he  find  fault  'bout 
you  marryin'  Massa  Brown! — jess  as  if  he  had  a  right  to 
complain  ob  dat,  when  'Zeke  neber  done  complain,  and  neber 


A     W  I  N  T  K  \i     N  I  (;  H  T  .  Ill 

would,  not  if  you'd  a  married   de  bery  ole  debil  hisself,  — 
neber  ;  for  you's  liis  own  little  gal." 

Here  the  old  man's  head  sank  forward  upon  his  hands,  and 
two  great  tears  rolled  down  from  under  his  half-closed  eyelids. 
The  young  woman's  arms  twined  themselves  about  his  neck, 
and  in  low,  broken  words,  she  said,  — 

"  0   'Zekiel,   'Zekiel !    how  can    I    ever   pay  you   for   all 
your  love  ?  " 

"  Pay  !  "  ejaculated  the  old  black,  looking  up  tenderly  in 
her  face.  "  You  hab  paid  me  —  paid  me  ebery  day  sense  you 
was  born.  But  sa^'  no  more  ob  dat, — jess  leff  'Zeke  tell  you 
de  idee  de  good  Lord  hab  put  into  his  head,  and  den  you'll  see 
how  we'm  a  gwine  to  git  fru  de  winter  ;  how  de  Lord  am 
a  gwine  to  feed  us  like  he  feed  'Lijah  —  only  wid  de  crows  — 
de  woolly  crows !  He  I  he  !  "  And  again  he  laughed,  so 
heartily  as  to  choke,  for  a  time,  his  utterance. 

With  a  smile  half  of  trust,  half  of  incredulity,  Rachel 
drew  herself  back  on  the  settle,  and  said,  — 

"  Tell  me,  'Zekiel,  tell  me." 

"  Wall,  Missy  Rachel,  you  knows  dem  Levites  in  de  Bible, 
—  sorry  bad  set  dey  was,  I  reckon,  de  most  ob  'um,  —  loike  de 
one  dat  go  down  to  Jericho  on  de  oder  side,  —  but  dey  was  de 
Lord's  chosen  for  all  dat,  and  he  gabe  'um  de  right  to  lib 
scot  free  onto  oder  folks ;  and  to  hab  ten  dollar  out  ob 
ebery  hun'red;  dough  dey  neber  done  a  honest  day's  wuck 
in  all  dar  lives.  Wall,  jess  now,  when  Massa  Jordan  was  a 
axin'  how  much  corn  an'  bacon  we'd  eat  a  week,  and  ole  Zeke 
was  jess  a  gwine  to  tell  him,  it  comed  into  his  head  all  to 
onct,  loike  a  flash,  dat  he'd  ben  a  Levite  to  dese  brack 
Israelites  on  dis  yere  plantation  for  nigh  onto  forty  year,  and. 


112  ON     T  n  E     B  O  R  D  E  K  . 

neber  got  a  cent ;  but  hoed  his  own  row,  loike  all  de  rest  ob 
dem.  Wall,  you  see,  dat  corned  to  him,  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  onct  jess  to  tell  'em  at  de  next  meetin'  dat  dey  owes 
ole  'Zeke  board  and  lodgin'  fur  forty  year ;  but  he'll  lefF  'em 
up  on  dat.  if  dey '11  jess  fork  ober  a  tenth  of  all  dey  hab,  till 
de  next  harvest.  Dej^'U  do  it,  —  dey'll  jump  to  do  it ;  and, 
bein'  dar's  more'n  a  hundred  ob  'um,  you  knows  enuif  ob 
figgers,  missy,  to  count  how  much  it'll  come  to,  —  why  !  it'll 
keep  us  fur  de  year,  buy  a  set  o'  'hogony  cheers,  a  new  bed 
fur  de  missus,  a  carpet  fur  de  floor,  and  dress  you  up  loike  a 
lady  agin." 

In  his  warm  burst  of  enthusiasm,  the  old  man  had  not  ob- 
served the  face  of  the  young  woman  ;  but  now  he  looked  up, 
and  noticed  the  strange,  almost  despairing,  expression  on  her 
features.  "  What  am  de  matter,  missy  ?  what  am  de  mat- 
ter ? "  he  cried,  in  an  earnest,  anxious  tone,  the  glow  going 
from  his  £ace  in  an  instant. 

Her  head  fell  u^^on  his  shoulder,  and  she  said,  almost  sob- 
bing, — 

"  0  'Zekiel,  'Zekiel !  To  think  I  should  come  to  this  !  — 
to  think  I  should  come  to  this  ! " 

The  old  man  folded  his  arm  about  her,  and  drawing  her 
closely  to  him,  said,  in  tones  in  which  there  was  a  strange 
blending   of   rebuke    and   tenderness,  — 

"  Dat  am  it.  Missy  Rachel ;  dat'm  de  pride  de  Lord  meant 
to  git  clean  out  ob  both  on  us  'fore  he'd  holp  us.  It  was  in 
ole  'Zeke,  It  stuck  in  his  froat,  loike  it  was  a  alligator,  'fore 
he  go  to  Massa  Jordan ;  but  he  make  up  his  mind  to  swaller 
it  down  for  de  sake  ob  his  little  gal ;  and  den  de  Lord,  he 
make  up  his  mind  to  holp  us,  'case  'Zeke  had  been  and  done 


A     WINTER     NIGHT.  113 

crucified  dat  ar  ole  Adam.  And,  honey,  3'ou  do  loike  ole 
'Zeke  done,  and  de  Lord,  he'll  turn  round,  and  not  send  onto 
us  no  more  truble  ;  but  lift  up  de  clouds,  and  show  us  de  sun, 
dat'm  allers  a-shinin'  on  de  'tother  side  ob  Jordan.  And  dis 
yere  haint  loike  gwine  to  dat  ole  Scotchman,  dat  was  a  beg- 
gin' ;  dis  yere  am  only  takin'  what  belongs  to  us ;  it'm  only 
sayin'  to  dese  yere  folks,  as  hab  owed  'Zeke  for  forty  year, 
'  "We'll  forgib  you  de  ole  debt ;  but  you  must  pay  up  in  de 
futer';  if  3'ou  don't,  you  can't  hab  no  more  preachin','  —  and 
dey  can't,  not  so  long  as  ole  'Zeke  am  'bove  ground." 

"  Oh !  but  'Zekiel,  to  take  so  much  from  such  poor  peo- 
ple!" 

"  Lor^  bress  you,  missy,  dey  haint  poor ;  dey's  rich,  —  richer 
dan  we  am.  But  it  needn't  be  so  much,  missy.  If  you  says 
so,  'Zeke'll  leiF  'um  up  on  de  carpet,  and  de  bed,  and  de 
'hogony  cheers,  —  only  you  and  de  missus  must  hab  some 
warm  clo'es  fur  de  winter.  'Zeke  am  afeard  she'm  got  her 
death  wid  dat  ar'cold  a'ready." 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother,  the  young  woman  rose,  and 
said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  — 

"Well,  'Zekiel,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  It  is  the 
Lord's  will.  His  hand  I  have  not  always  seen ;  but  now  I 
see  it.     I  will  put  away  pride,  and  try  to  be  a  better  woman." 

Quietly  then  she  took  up  the  meagre  loaf  of  corn-pone, 
which  was  baking  before  the  fire,  and  placed  it  upon  the 
table.^  Then,  going  to  a  closet  in  the  chimney-corner,  she 
brought  out  a  plate,  and  a  cup  and  saucer,  and  laid  them 
opposite  similar  pieces  of  crockery  ware  which  already  adorned 
the  scanty  board.  Then  she  turned  to  the  old  man  and  said, 
cheerfully,  — 

10  * 


114  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"Now,  'Zekielj  bring  up  your  chair;  let  us  eat  our  sup- 
per." 

"  Eat  supper  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Not  wid  you,  Missy  Rachel.  'Zeke  haint  got  to  he  so  bad 
as  dat  yet." 

Before  Rachel  could  answer,  her  mother,  who  had  been  a 
silent  but  attentive  listener  to  the  preceding  conversation, 
cried  out,  in  an  angry,  querulous  tone,  — 

"  What  do  ye  say,  Rachel  ?  Eat  with  'Zekiel !  —  eat  with 
a  old  black!  I  hope  ye  haint  come  to  that!  I'd  starve 
fust!" 

"Mother,"  answered  the  younger  woman,  in  a  firm  but 
mild  voice,  "  for  twenty  years  you  have  been  telling  me  that 
I  am  better  than  other  people  ;  and  all  that  time  God  has 
been  showing  me  that  I  am  not,  —  that  I  am  not  half,  no,  not 
nearl}^  half,  so  good  as  this  poor  old  man.  Now  I  mean  to 
listen  to  God,  and  not  to  you  or  my  own  false  pride.  I  mean 
to  treat  'Zekiel  like  what  he  is,  —  our  only  true  friend.  Come, 
'Zekiel,  bring  up  your  chair." 

Without  a  word  the  old  black  rose,  and  came  forward  to  the 
table.  Then,  brushing  away  a  tear,  he  bent  down  his  head 
and  said  a  few  low  words.  He  meant  them  as  a  grace  over 
the  frugal  meal ;  but,  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  they  had  be- 
come a  simple  thanksgiving  to  the  Great  Father,  who  had 
touched  his  young  mistress'  heart,  not  to  exalt  him,  but  to 
humble  herself,  and  to  cast  away  that  pride  which^  had 
shut  her  eyes  to  the  beauties  of  all  but  this  world,  and 
been  a  wall  between  her  and  Him,  and  the  good  angels  who 
would  come  and  be  with  her  alway. 

When  the  meal  was  nearly  over,  a  knock  came  at  the  door, 


A     W  I  N  T  K  K     N  I  G  H  T  .  115 

and  a  tall,  ungainly  man  entered  the  apartment.  A  huge 
slouched  hat  half  hid  his  face,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had 
spoken  her  name  that  Rachel  recognized  him  as  the  younger 
Jordan.  Then  she  sprang  suddenly  to  her  feet,  and  a  deep 
crimson  suftused  her  features.  They  had  not  met  since  her 
marriage,  and  old  memories  may  have  come  rushing  on  her, 
or  some  lingering  remnant  of  the  pride  she  meant  to  conquer 
may  have  revolted  at  being  thus  discovered  at  table  with  the 
old  negro.  Whatever  it  was,  the  feeling  vanished  in  a  mo- 
ment, and,  extending  her  hand  to  the  new-comer,  she 
said,  — 

"  John,  is  it  you  ?     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Rachel,"  responded  Jordan,  a  slight 
tremor  in  his  voice  ;  "  and  'Zekiel,  how  are  you,  —  and  you, 
Mrs.  Irving?" 

"  Poorly,  right  poorly,"  squeaked  the  older  woman,  raising 
herself  in  the  bed,  and  taking  Jordan's  oifered  hand;  '^and 
0  John  !  who'd  ha'  thought  we'd  ever  come  to  this  ?  —  not 
a  bushel  of  meal  in  the  house,  and  Rachel  got  to  eatin'  with 
sarvints." 

"  She  might  do  worse  than  that,"  answered  Jordan,  smil- 
ing, but  with  a  strange  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "  I  have  had 
many  a  dinner  of  cold  bacon  and  hickory  nuts  with  'Zekiel, 
and  I  hope  to  have  many  another." 

The  crimson  glow  again  suffused  the  face  of  Rachel  for  a 
moment ;  but  she  only  said,  — 

"  Sit  down,  John.     You  have  been  a  long  time  away." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  seating  himself  by  the  fire.  "  After 
selling  the  mules,  I  was  kept  at  Frankfort,  nearly  a  month, 
by  the  lawsuit.'^ 


116  ON     THE     li  O  R  D  E  R  . 

"  And  have  the  poor  people  at  last  got  their  freedom  ?  " 

"  No ;  the  case  was  decided  in  their  favor  ;  but  Cecil  man- 
aged to  get  in  something  that  will  probably  secure  another 
trial." 

"  It  is  a  great  NATong.  I  don't  see  how  such  men  can  hold 
up  their  heads  among  people." 

"  Cecil  is  a  bad  man ;  be  would  do  anything  for  money. 
He  is  the  only  one  I  know  for  whom  I  have  a  natural  dislike. 
But  I  have  this  moment  got  home,  and  have  not  eaten  since 
morning.     Don't  you  mean  to  ask  me  to  supper  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  take  our  poor  fare,  John,"  she  answered,  ris- 
ing, and  placing  another  plate  upon  the  table.  "We  are 
very  poor,  —  we  hardly  know  how  we  shall  get  through  the 
winter." 

"  So  father  has  just  told  me,"  said  Jordan,  seating  himself 
beside  the  negro,  "  That  is  why  I  have  come  so  soon ;  he 
wants  to  help  you." 

"  We  doesn't  want  his  holp,  Massa  John.  'Zeke  hab 
made  oder  'rangements,"  said  the  negro,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  with  the  air  of  an  African  king. 

"  Father  was  afraid  he  had  offended  you.  He  is  blunt,  you 
know ;  but  he  means  kindly." 

"  'Zeke  doesn't  know  what  he  means,  —  he  only  know  what 
he  say,  —  and  he  say  to-night  what  'Zeke  don't  leff  no  one 
say  'bout  his  young  missus.  'Zeke  gub  him  a  chance  to  do 
a  good  action,  and  he'll  neber  hab  anoder  sich  a  chance  if  he 
libs  to  be  as  old  as  Mathuselum." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  are  offended,  'ZekieL" 

"  Tended,  Massa  John  !  I'se  wuss  dan  'fended,  —  Pse 
riled  way  down  to  de  bottom.     And,  leff  me  tell  you,  Massa 


A     WINTER     NIGHT.  117 

John,  'Zeke  haiut  no  patience  wid  dese  folks  dat  make  sich 
great  pretensions,  and  doles  out  de  good  dey  does  wid  a  peck 
measure.  De  Lord  don't  do  dat ;  if  lie  did,  dar  haint  a 
Scotchman  livin'  dat  wouldn't  starve  'fore  de  week  was  out." 

"  That's  so,  'Zekiel,"  said  Jordan,  laughing  at  the  earnest- 
ness of  the  negro.  "  But  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  What 
arrangements  have  you  made  for  the  winter  ?  " 

"  NeJDer  you  mind,  Massa  John  —  '  Zeke's  made  'em,  and 
you  neber  know'd  him  to  broke  down  when  he  went  'bout 
a  ting." 

Jordan  made  no  reply,  but  looked  inquiringly  at  Rachel. 
Her  face  took  on  again  a  crimson  hue ;  but  she  said, quietly,  — 

"  He  means  to  tithe  the  negroes  j  and,  John,  I  have  con- 
sented to  it." 

The  strange  gleam  came  again  into  the  young  man's  eyes, 
as  he  answered,  — 

"  Ah,  Eachel !  God  teaches  us  in  strange  ways ;  but  you 
have  learned  His  lesson,  and  I  am  thankful." 

No  one  spoke  for  some  minutes  ;  then  the  young  man  said, — 

"  'Zekiel  must  not  apply  to  the  negroes.  It  is  as  much 
as  they  can  do  to  live.  Here  is  enough  to  keep  you  through 
the  winter." 

With  this,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  leathern  money-belt, 
such  as  is  sometimes  worn  by  travellers,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
table.  A  sudden  glow  lit  up  the  face  of  the  negro,  as, 
opening  it  quickly,  he  ran  his  eye  over  its  contents. 

"  Fru  de  winter,  Massa  John ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  not 
a  trace  of  his  recent  dignity  ;  "  fru  de  winter !  Why  j^ere'm 
'nuff  to  keep  us  fru  twenty  winters !  'Zeke  kin  count  — 
yere'm  ^.nore'n  a  t'ousand  dollars  !  " 


118  ON     THE     BORDER. 

Rachel  had  sat  without  speaking,  as  if  moved  by  contending 
emotions  ;  but  now  she  said,  — 

"  No,  no,  John,  I  can't  take  it  —  not  from  you,  after  "  — 

She  said  no  more,  but  in  her  face  the  young  man  read  the 
remainder  of  the  sentence. 

"  You  can  take  it,  Rachel,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not  a  gift,  but 
a  debt.  For  ten  years  your  father  taught  me,  —  mother  paid 
him  all  she  could ;  the  rest  I  promised  to  pay  you,  when  he 
was  dying." 

She  made  no  reply  for  some  moments;  then,  the  crimson 
glow  again  on  her  face,  she  said,  — 

"  John,  your  mother  more  than  paid  my  father,  but  I  mean 
to  have  no  false  pride  ;  I  will  take  the  money, —  enough  to 
carry  us  through  the  winter." 

"  Take  the  whole,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  no  use  for  it. 
It  is  the  capital  on  which  I  have  traded  ;  but  now  I  have 
given  up  trading,  —  so  I  have  no  need  of  money." 

"Given'  up  tradin'  !  What  am  you  gwine  at,  Massa 
John  ? "  asked  the  negro,  still  running  the  bank-notes 
through  his  fingers,  with  a  look  as  gleeful  as  that  of  a  child 
over  a  parcel  of  new  playthings. 

"  Whatever  is  given  me  to  do.  The  South  is  threatening 
disunion,  and  the  leading  men  are  already  rousing  the  people. 
Cecil  has  made  appointments  to  stump  the  district,  and  they 
hope  to  carry  out  Kentucky.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  to  pre- 
vent it," 

"  But  what  can  you  do,  John  ?  "  asked  Rachel. 

"  Speak  wherever  he  speaks ;  show  the  people  it  is  for  their 
interest  to  stay  in  the  Union." 


A     WINTER     NIGHT.  119 

"  iViid  can  you  argue  with  such  a  man  ?  You  know  he  is 
one  of  the  best  speakers  in  Kentucky." 

"  I  know.  I  have  heard  him ;  but  I  shall  have  truth  on 
my  side ;  and,  Rachel,  you  know  all  my  ancestors  were 
preachers.  Such  things  run  in  the  blood ;  so  it  may  be  I 
have  the  gift  of  talking." 

A  look  of  pride  came  on  the  face  of  Rachel ;  but  she  said 
nothing. 

The  old  black  exclaimed,  — 

"  'Zeke  knows  you  hab,  Massa  John  !  He  allers  belt  you'd 
orter  to  ha'  been  a  preacher.  But  don't  you  trust  in  yourseff ; 
jess  you  look  to  de  Lord  —  He'll  gib  you*  de  words,  and  de 
wisdom.  He  will !  'Zeke  knows ;  fur,  many  and  many  a 
time,  he's  stood  up  in  de  little  church,  widout  a  word  to  say, 
and,  'fore  he's  sot  down,  he's  had  de  whole  house  a  groanin'." 

"  Well,  this  is  the  Lord's  work,"  answered  Jordan,  smiling. 
"  I  know  He  will  help  me." 

"  And  when  do  you  begin  ?  "  asked  Rachel. 

"  At  once.  Cecil  speaks  at  Piketon  to-morrow ;  and  then, 
somewhere  else,  nearly  every  day  during  the  winter." 

"  "Well,  the  Lord  be  with  you ;  I  shall  pray  for  you,  John." 

"  I  thank  you,  Rachel.     It  will  help  me." 

Their  eyes  met ;  but  it  was  his  that  now  were  dimmed 
with  moisture. 

"About  the  money,  John,"  she  said,  taking  the  roll  of 
bank-notes  from  the  hand  of  the  negro.  "  I  will  take  enough 
for  the  winter." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  quickly,  "  take  the  whole.  You  may 
want  it.  I  fear  terrible  times  are  coming,  —  and  I  may  not 
be  here  to  help  you." 


120  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  What  do  you  fear,  —  not  war  ?  "  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Yes ;  it  must  come,  if  the  Cotton  States  persist  in  going 
out  of  the  Union,  —  and  they  will." 

"  But  you  wont  go  into  it,  John  ?  You  wont  go  into  it  ?  " 
she  said,  her  face  turning  to  an  ashy  color. 

"I  must,  Eachel,  if  it  comes.  The  true  work  of  my  life 
will  be  in  it.  Ever  since  I  balked  father's  plan  of  making 
me  a  preacher,  I  have  known  I  had  something  to  do  in  the 
world ;  and  now  my  work  is  coming." 

"  But  you  will  be  in  danger,  John ;  j^ou  may  not  live 
through  it." 

"  I  shall  not  live  through  it." 

Rachel  started,  and  her  face  grew  even  more  pallid  than 
before.     He  noticed  this,  and  said  in  soft,  subdued  tones,  -^ 

^•' Don't  be  alarmed,  Eachel.  Death  must  come  to  us  at 
some  time.     I  shall  not  die  till  my  work  is  done." 

The  color  came  again  into  her  cheeks,  as  she  answered,  — 

"  But  you  do  not  know  that  you  will  die.  I  have  had  such 
presentiments,  and  they  have  oftener  been  false  than  true." 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  answered,  — 

"  This  is  no  presentiment,  —  it  is  knowledge.  I  have  seen 
the  shadows  of  the  future.  The  other  night,  when  I  sat  in 
the  court-room  hearing  Cecil  talk  away  the  freedom  of  better 
men  than  himself,  a  cloud  gathered  round  him,  and  in  that 
cloud  I  saw  —  not  with  my  eyes,  but  with  my  mind  — 
the  outlines  of  what  is  coming.  He  seemed  to  stand  at  the 
entrance  of  a  long  avenue  which  stretched  out  dimly  beyond 
him.  His  hands  were  drij^ping  with  blood,  and  blood  was  on 
the  hands  and  garments  of  nearly  all  that  were  about  him. 
Soon  I  saw  myself     My  hands  were  clean,  but  blood  was  on 


A     W  I  N  T  E  U     N  I  (t  H  T  .  *    121 

my  clothing.  Then,  again,  I  was  far  down  the  avenue  in  a 
prison,  my  hands  as  red  as  Cecil's ;  and  then,  again,  I  was 
farther  down,  —  at  the  very  end  of  the  avenue.  My  hands 
were  white,  and  a  great  light  was  breaking  over  my  head ; 
but  I  was  on  the  ground,  and  —  dying." 

"  Aftd  whar  was  Missy  Each  el  ?  Did  you  see  her,  Massa 
John  ?  "  asked  the  old  black,  who  had  listened  with  breathless 
attention. 

"  Yes,  —  she  came  to  me  in  the  prison  ; "  and  he  bowed  his 
head  upon  his  hands,  and  no  one  spoke  for  many  minutes. 
At  last  Eachel  broke  the  silence,  — 

''  Ah  !  John  ! "  she  said,  "  this  is  all  imagination.  You  had 
been  over-anxious  about  the  trial  and  the  country,  and  things 
have  got  mixed  up  in  your  mind  so  as  to  make  this  dreadful 
picture."' 

She  said  these  words ;  but  her  face  spoke  quite  another  lan- 
guage.    That  told  that  she  believed  the  vision. 

"  Ko,  no,  Rachel,"  he  answered  ;  '•  I  have  had  such  visions 
before,  and  the  events  have  always  followed.  All  men  and 
all  events  cast  their  shadows  before  them.  Few  can  read 
these  shadows  ;  but  I  can,  and  so  could  some  of  my  ancestors." 

"  You  have  told  me  so,  John ;  but  you've  said  you  never 
saw  yourself  in  your  visions." 

"  I  never  did  before.  This  has  been  shown  me  for  a  pur- 
pose,—  to  prepare  me  for  what  is  coming,  —  to  fit  me  for 
the  work  I  have  to  do." 

"  And  what  work  do  you  see  you  have  to  do  ?  ". 

''  I  do  not  see  the  work ;  I  only  see  the  end ;  but  then  my 
hands  are  clean,  and  I  die  for  my  country,  as  did  the  old  Jor- 
dans." 

11 


122  O  N     T  H  E     B  O  R  D  E  R  . 

As  he  said  this,  his  gray  eyes  gleamed,  and  his  dreamy  face 
lighted  up  with  a  glow  that  outshone  the  fire-light.  No  longer 
able  to  restrain  herself,  the  young  woman  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  and  sobbed  out,  — 

"  0  John  !  John  !  to  think  that  you  must  die,  —  you  who 
are  so  good,  so  noble ! " 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  paced  the  room  for  a  while  in 
silence.  Then  he  said,  as  if  unconscious  of  any  but  her 
presence,  — 

"  It  is  best,  Rachel,  —  best  for  us  both.  God  is  good ;  he 
has  opened  your  eyes,  and  that  was  all  I  wanted.  Now  the 
end  may  come,  and  the  sooner  it  comes  the  better." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  kept  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands.  For  a  while  longer  he  paced  the  room,  then  he  came 
to  her,  and,  reaching  out  his  hand,  said,  — 

"  Good-by.     I  must  go." 

She  looked  up ;  her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears ;  but 
she  took  his  hand,  and  said,  — 

" Good-by,  John.    You  will  come  to  see  me  when  you  can?" 

"Yes,  when  I  can.     Good-by,  'Zekiel." 

"Good-by,  Massa  John,  good-by.  De  good  Lord  be  wid 
you." 

"  He  will  be  ;  for  I  shall  try  to  do  his  work ;  "  and,  turning 
away,  he  left  the  apartment. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Rachel  rose  from  her  seat  before 
the  fire  to  clear  away  the  tea-things,  she  saw  the  roll  of  bank- 
notes and  the  leathern  belt  on  the  table.  Taking  them  up, 
she  turned  to  Ezekiel,  saying,  — 

"  Why,  look  here,  'Zekiel !  We  have  forgotten  the  money. 
Take  it  to  him  at  once.     He'll  go  away  in  the  morning." 


A     WINTER     NIGHT.  .  123 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  fire,  as  if  to  ask  counsel  of  the 
backlog,  and  then  he  said,  — 

"  No,  no,  missy.  Massa  John  am  right.  'Twont  be  ob  no 
use  to  him ;  and  dar's  no  tellin'  what'm  comin'.  Ole  'Zeke'll 
buckle  de  belt  round  his  body,  and  de  money '11  be  safer  dar 
dan  anywhar  in  creation." 


CHAPTER  VII 


A    CHRISTMAS   IN   FEBRUARY. 


HAT  night  Rachel  did  not  sleep.  She  lay  awake  re- 
volving the  strange  revelations  of  the  strange  man 
who  had  been  so  great  an  enigma  to  her  from  her 
girlhood.  His  earnest  manner,  and  his  own  firm  faith 
in  his  singular  vision,  had  at  first  inclined  her  to  believe  that 
the  terrible  things  he  predicted  were  in  truth  coming ;  but 
now,  when  the  darkness  brought  calm  thought,  and  she  no 
longer  felt  the  powerful  magnetism  of  his  presence,  her  mind 
revolted  from  its  former  conclusions,  and  she  came  to  regard 
it  all  as  the  dream  of  an  excited  imagination,  the  disordered 
working  of  a  sensitive  nature,  overwrought  by  anxiety,  and 
thrown  from  its  true  balance  by  the  disturbing  influences  of 
the  excited  court-room.  She  knew  little  of  mental  philoso- 
phy ;  but  she  had  often  watched  the  workings  of  her  own 
mind ;  and  could  her  own  eyes  pierce  the  shadows  that  shroud 
the  future  ?  and,  too,  was  it  not  said  that  since  the  last  Evange- 
list looked  within  the  vail  on  the  unacted  realities  of  the  life 
to  come,  the  vision  and  the  prophesy  had  been  sealed  to  mor- 
tal sight  forever  ? 

With   these   thoughts    she    rose    when   the    first   sunlight 
touched  the  windows  of  the  little  cabin,  and,  going  to  the 
head  of  the  stairway,  called  the  old  negro. 
(124) 


A     CHRISTMAS     IN     FEliKUARY.  125 

"  What  am  it,  missy  ?  "  he  asked,  thrusting  his  head  from 
under  the  clothes  of  a  scanty  pallet  that  occupied  one  corner 
of  the  attic.     "  What'm  broke  loose  so  airly? " 

"Nothing;  only  that  money.  John  will  need  it;  and  I 
am  afraid,  if  you  don't  go  at  once,  he'U  be  gone  before  you 
get  there." 

"  Lor'  bress  jou,  Missy  Rachel,  he  wont  He'm  right,  — 
he'll  neber  need  no  more  money  !  'Zeke  knows ;  he  seed  it  all 
lass  night  in  a  dream." 

"  What  did  you  see  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  startled  way. 

"  Jess  what  Massa  John  say.  'Zeke  seed  it  all,  way  down 
to  de  lass,  jess  as  he  done." 

"  Of  course  you  did,"  she  answered,  turning  away  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  "Your  mind  got  absorbed  in  his 
story,  and  so  you  dreamed  just  what  he  told  us." 

"  No,  no,  missy,"  and  now  his  voice  sunk  to  a  low,  husky 
whisper,  as  if  some  terrible  dread  had  suddenly  taken  pos- 
session of  him,  and  was  half  smothering  his  utterance. 
"  'Zeke  seed  more,  —  seed  it  all,  —  and  it  all  went  afore  him 
loike  it  went  afore  John,  and  Daniel,  and  ole  'Zekiel  in  de 
Bible  ;  only  it  wasn't  in  blind  figgers,  but  in  plain  folks,  — 
me  and  you,  and  Massa  John,  and  ole  Massa  Jordan,  and  de 
whole  kentry,  and  all  plowed  up  wid  de  red-hot  cannon  ob  de 
battle-field.  But  'Zeke'll  neber  leab  you,  missy,  —  neber ! 
He'll  stand  by  you  if  de  lass  day  am  a-comin',  and  —  he  reck- 
ons it  am ! " 

It  is  singular  the   magnetic  force  which   dwells   in    some 

minds,  and  not  in  others,  equally  as  earnest  and  equally  as 

powerful.    Ezekiel's    will  was    strong ;   his   convictions    were 

earnest;    but   his    nature  lacked  that  subtle  element  which. 

11* 


126  ON     THE     BORDER. 

in  Jordan,  had  transfixed  the  mind  of  his  young  mistress, 
and  made  his  dreams  seem  to  her,  while  she  was  in  his  pres- 
ence, to  be  living  realities. 

Giving  no  heed  to  the  old  negro's  words,  Rachel  turned  to 
go  down  the  stairway,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  — 

"  Well,  'Zekiel,  get  up ;  I  shall  send  back  the  money." 

"  Not  de  whole,  missy,  not  de  whole  ?  You  wont  make  ole 
'Zeke  ax  de  toll  ob  dem  ar'  pore  folks,  as,  wid  de  hard  winter 
and  de  eberlastin'  lawsuit,  haint  more'n  half  a  moufful  fur 
darselves." 

Smiling  at  his  sudden  recollection  of  his  constituents,  Ra- 
chel answered,  — 

"  No,  we'll  keep  a  hundred  dollars.  John  would  feel  hurt 
if  we  didn't ;  and  that  will  support  us  till  harvest.'^ 

The  old  black  had  scarcely  turned  into  the  high-road  which 
led  to  the  house  of  the  Jordans,  when  Rachel  heard  a  low 
rap  at  the  door  of  the  cabin.  Wondering  who  could  be  com- 
ing to  see  her  so  early,  she  said,  — 

"  Come  in ;  "  and  a  strange  serving-man  entered,  bearing  a 
letter.  Bowing  to  her,  and  handing  her  the  missive,  he  was 
turning  to  leave  the  room,  when  she  said,  quickly,  "  Who  is 
this  from  ?    Does  it  need  an  answer  ?  " 

"  No,  missus,"  answered  the  man.  "  Dat'm  all  I  was  telled 
to  say ;  "  and  he  went  as  suddenly  as  he  came. 

She  opened  the  letter,  and  a  mingled  look  of  dread  and 
loathing  came  over  her  features. 

"  Who  ar'  it  from,  Rachel  ?  "  asked  her  mother,  whom  the 
coming  of  the  man  had  awakened. 


A     CURISTMAS     IN     FEBKUARY.  127 

"  Jackson  Weddington,"  said  the  younger  woman,  catching 
her  breath,  and  sinking  down  on  the  settle  before  the  fire. 

"  From  him  I  —  the  mean  scamp  !  —  I  thought  he  was  away 
out  of  the  kentry." 

"  No ;  he  is  here,  and  I  am  to  be  persecuted  by  him  again  ;  " 
and  she  rested  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  over  her  face  came 
a  look  wliieh  was  half  despair,  half  indignation. 

''  What  need  ye  to  fear  of  him  ?  "  asked  the  older  woman, 
in  the  querulous  tone  which  had  become  habitual  to  her. 
"  He  ar*  a  coward.  He  went  away  only  'case  he  war  afeard 
of  another  beatin'  from  Bradley." 

"  But  Bradley  is  not  here;  and  somehow,  mother,  he  has 
over  me  a  strange  power.  When  he  is  near  me,  there  come 
upon  me  the  queerest  feelings,  —  I  lose  all  strength,  and  it 
seems  as  if  I  should  smother," 

"Never  you  worry, — he  wont  come  nigh  you.  'Zeke  ar' 
yere,  an'  he  ar'  more  afeard  of  him  nor  he  ar'  of  Bradley ;  " 
and  the  old  woman  laughed  a  croaking,  disdainful  laugh, 
which  plainly  said  that  in  her  mind  the  white  man  who  could 
fear  a  negro  was  the  most  contemptible  of  bipeds. 

Kachel  made  no  reijly,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  old 
negro  entered  the  apartment.  His  glance  fell  upon  Eachel, 
and  in  an  instant,  with  the  quick  eye  of  affection,  he  detected 
her  unusual  emotion. 

.  "  W^hat'm    it,    missy  ? "    he   said.     "  What'm    broke   loose 
now  ?  " 

"  0  'Zekiel,"  she  answered,  looking  up,  and  handing  him 
the  letter,  "  read  that ! " 

He  took  the  letter,  and,  as  he  slowly  opened  it,  a  bank-note 
fell  from  it  upon  the  floor.     Taking  it  up,  he  said,  — 


128  ON     THE     BORDER. 

^'  Gor-a'massy !  It  sort  ob  rain  money  dis  mornin'.  A 
hun'red  dollar  !  "Wall,  if  Massa  Jackson  war  only  brack,  he 
wouldn't  fotch  dat  much  under  de  hammer  nohow.  But  leff 
'Zeke  see  what  he  sa}'-."     [Reads.] 

"'Missus  Brown,  —  'Spected  madam  (Ob  course,  "'spect- 
ed,"  and  s'pectable,  too,  Massa  Jack  :  j^ou'll  find  dat  out  'fore 
you'm  much  older) :  I  hab  jess  return  to  de  mansion,  and  I 
jess  yere  dat  you's  in  distress  (not  nigh  so  bad  off  as  you, 
Massa  Jack,  wid  all  your  money).  I  beg  (he  orter  beg,  and 
he  will,  in  dat  kentry  whar  ebery  one'll  git  ^cordin'  to  his 
doin's)  dat  you'll  'cept  dis  triflin'  ("  triflin' ! "  wall,  it  am 
triflin' ;  'Zeke  hab  got  ten  times  dat,  all  his  own,  in  his 
pocket ;  and  ebery  dollar  ob  it  honest  money)  'sistance. 
"  'From  your  true  friend, 

"'Jackson  Weddington.' " 

The  old  man  laid  the  letter  and  the  money  on  the  table, 
and,  sitting  down  by  the  fire,  looked  fixedly  into  the  blaze, 
and  was  silent  for  many  minutes.  At  last  he  turned  to 
Bachel,  and,  with  an  alarmed,  but  grotesque  expression  on 
his  wrinkled  features,  said,  — 

"  It'm  a  comin'.  Missy  Rachel,  it'm  a  comin' !  what  'Zeke 
hab  feared  all  his  life,  —  eber  sense  he  was  a  child,  —  eber 
sense  his  poor  mudder  die,  as  come  from  de  kentry  far  ober 
de  great  sea." 

"What  is  coming,  'Zekiel?"  asked  Rachel,  catching  a  por- 
tion of  his  intense  feeling. 

"Blood,  Missy  Rachel !  'Zeke  can't  die  wid  clean  hands, — 
can't  die  wid  clean  hands  !  His  pore  mudder  say  so,  —  and 
it'm  true,  —  it'm  true." 


CHRISTMAS     IN     FEBRUARY. 


129 


''But  how  could  she  know?    How  could  she  tell  so  many 


years  ago  '^ " 


«  She  seed  it,  —  seed  it  in  'Zeke's  hand  when  she  was  dyin' 
in  de  ole  cabin  down  in  Virginny.  You  see  she  was  born  whar 
do  sun  shine  more  brighter  dan  it  do  yere,  and  whar  de  brack 
folks  hab  dat  wonderful  eyesight." 

"  Don't  feel  so,  'Zekiel.     She  couldn't  see,  —  no  one  can  see 

into  the  future." 

"  Oh,  yas  dey  kin,  Missy  Rachel,-yas  dey  kin !  Massa  John 
am  right,  — ebei^  man  and  every  ting  frows  his  shadder  afore 
him.  ''ah  he'm  to  be  and  to  do  am  writ  on  de  a'r  dat's  born 
wid  him  ;  and  dem  as  hab  de  eyes  kin  read  de  writin'.  She 
seed  on  'Zeke's  hand  de  shadder  ob  de  blood,  and  she  say  he 
couldn't  neber  die  'fore  he'd  sent  a  bad  man  to  de  judgment- 
day,  —  and  it'm  him,  —  dat  letter  show  it'm  him." 

''But  you  wouldn't  hurt  him,  'Zekiel.  He'll  never  dare  to 
come  here  ;  so,  he'll  never  give  you  occasion." 

«  He  iviU  come  yere  ;  he  ivill  gib  'Zeke  'casion,  —  de  letter 
show  dat;  and  dough  'Zeke  wouldn't  hurt  a  flea,  he  couldn't 
holp  hisseff,  if  he  comed  round  you  ag'in,  Missy  Rachel." 

"Never  you  fear,  'Zeke,"  said  the  older  woman,  now,  for 
the  first  time,  interruf>ting  the  conversation.  "He's  mortal 
afeard  of  ye.     He'll  never  come." 

"  Don't  you  be  ober  sure  ob  dat,  missus,"  answered  the 
black.    "  Cowards  am  allers  fools,  and  he'm  a  coward,  sartin." 
After  a  moment's  pause,  he  added,  — 
"But  it  can't  be  holped;    'Zeke  wont  git  inter  his  way; 
and  he  can't  be  'sponsible  fur  what'm  writ  in  de  shadders." 

With  this  crude  fatalism  the  old  man  dismissed  the  subject, 
and,  turning  to  his  young  mistress,  said,  — 


loO  O  N     T  II  K     11  U  U  D  E  K  . 

"  I  seed  Massa  John.     He  was  jess  gwine  'way  on  de  bay 

mar',  wid  Massa   KoLin,  and    a   lot   of   young   gemmen,  all 

^  ob  'em  armed  way  up  to  de  teeth  wid  knives  and  'volvers  — 

'cejDt  Massa  John.     He  say  he'm  gwine  to  talk,  and  not  to 

fight,  and  he  wouldn't  tuck  a  thing." 

"  Why,  is  there  danger  ?  "  asked  Rachel,  turning  suddenly 
palo. 

'^  So  Massa  Jordan  tink  ;  and  he  wouldn't  leff  Massa 
John  go  widout  Massa  Eobin,  and  de  ress  goed  wid  him. 
He  say  dat  ar'  ole  Cecil  am  desput  bad,  and  wont  stop  fur 
nuffin',  if  he's  git  floored.  And  he'm  sure  Massa  John'll 
took  'um  all  down,  case  he  hab  de  tongue,  so  Massa  Jordan 
tink,  of  de  ole  Jordans  as  was  drowned  in  de  deluge." 

"  Well,  you  gave  him  the  money  ?  " 

"  No,  'Zeke  didn't ;  he  wouldn't  tuck  it.  To  de  fust  he 
say  you  muss  keep  it ;  but  when  he  know'd,  fur  sartin,  dat 
3^ou  wouldn't  hab  only  de  hun'red  dollars,  den  he  gub  it  to 
ole  'Zeke,  all  for  hisseff.  Fac',  missy  —  ebery  word;  and 
who'd  a  thought,"  —  and  here  he  drew  the  money-belt  from 
his  pocket,  and  fondled  it  affectionately,  —  ''  who'd  ha' 
thought  ole  'Zeke  would  ha'  lived  to  die  a  rich  man  !  Who'd 
ha'  thought  it!     He!  he!"  ♦ 

"  But  you  will  give  it  back  to  him,  'Zekiel,  as  soon  as 
he  comes  home  for  good,  and  these  troubles  are  over  ?  " 

"  Gib  it  back  to  him  !  'Zeke  reckons  he  wont.  He  make 
a  fa'r  trade,  and  he  reckons  he'll  stick  to  it.  You  see  'Zeke 
'gTeed  to  do  jess  what  Massa  John  want  him,  jess  so  long  as 
he  lib,  —  and  dis  am  de  price."  Here  he  tossed  the  money- 
belt  up  and  down,  and  laughed  gleefully,  —  "  and  dis  am 
de    price,    missy  —  twelve    hun'red    dollar  —  and   a   mighty 


A     C  H  U  I  S  r  MAS      I  N      F  K  li  R  L  A  K  Y  .  131 

good  price  it  am  for  a  ole  darky  as'in  nigh  onto  eighty  ;  but 
'Zeke  allers  belt  Massa  John  had  too  big  a  heart  in  him 
to  be  right  smart  at  tradin'."  ,' 

Kachel  smiled  pleasantly  at  the  facetiousness  of  the  old 
man ;  but  in  a  few  moments  she  said,  gravely,  — 

"  Well,  'Zekiel,  you'll  take  this  letter  and  money  back  to 
Jackson  Weddington  to-day  ?  " 

"No,  missy,  'Zeke  couldn't  do  dat  to-day.  He  darsn't 
tru<t  hisseff  in  sight  ob  dat  snake  jess  yit— not  jess  yit. 
'Sides,  he  want  to  pay  dat  ar'  fifty  dollar  we  owes  him  fur  de 
docterin'  'spences  ob  pore  massa.  We'll  go  down  to  de  viU 
lage,  and  buy  suffin*  to  eat,  and  suffin  warm  for  you  and  de 
mLus  ;  and  den,  'Zeke'll  broke  one  ob  dese  hun'red  dollar- 
bills,  and  scpiar'  up  wid  de  young  'Squar',  foreber." 

Mrs.  Irving  had  kept  her  bed  almost  constantly  since  the 
catastrophe  which  had  ruined  her  son-in-law.  She  had  no 
natural  force  of  character;  but  she  might  have  held  together 
some  years  longer,  had  she  not  been  so  suddenly  lifted  from 
years  of  poverty  to  the  dazzling  heights  of  a  gilded  coach 
and  long-tailed  horses,  and  as  suddenly  let  fall  into  the  amaz- 
ing depth  in  which  she  now  was  grumbling  and  grovelling. 
Her  nervous  system  was  not  strong  enough  to  rally  from  the 
last  shock,  and  slowly,  but  surely,  she  had  for  months  been 
sinking.  The  anxiety  and  excitement  of  the  past  two  days 
had  weakened  her  greatly,  and,  on  the  morning  following  the 
conversation  just  recorded,  she  was  too  ill  to  be  left  alone ; 
and  so  Rachel  was  obliged  to  defer  her  intended  visit  to 
the  village.  Another  day  passed,  and  she  was  no  better  ; 
but  then  not  a  pound  of  meal  was  left  in  the  cabin.     Food 


132  ON     THE     BORDER. 

must  be  had  at  once,  and  at  last  Racliel  decided  tliat  Ezekiel 
should  go  alone  for  clothing  and  provisions.  Getting  in  the 
day's  fuel,  and  harnessing  the  old  mule,  —  which,  by  some 
strange  Providence,  had  been  saved  from  the  wreck  of  their 
fortunes,  — he  set  out  soon  after  daybreak.  He  took  no 
breakfast,  and  it  was  a  twelve-mile  ride  by  a  very  slow  con- 
veyance ;  but  the  old  nian  said  cheerfully,  as  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  crazy  sled, — 

"  Nebei"  mind  de  breakfust,  missy ;  darll  be  de  more  for 
you.  'Zeke  eat  ob  de  fat  ob  de  land,  and  snioke  some 
'backer  to  boot,  when  he  git  to  de  village." 

The  old  man  had  been  gone  a  couple  of  hours,  Rachel  was 
quietly  clearing  away  the  breakfast  things,  and  her  mother, 
after  a  restless  night,  was  sleeping  soundly  in  the  low  bed  in 
the  corner,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  a  man  en- 
tered the  apartment.  His  face  was  muffled  in  the  cape  of 
his  overcoat,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  sj^oken  her  name  that 
E-achel  discovered  that  it  was  Weddington !  Then,  springing 
back,  and  almost  panting  with  a  sudden  fear,  she  said,  — 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

Glancing  quickly  about  the  room,  he  uncovered  his  head, 
and  unmuffled  his  face  ;  and  then,  advancing  a  few  paces,  he 
fixed  his  eyes  intently  upon  hers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  as  low 
and  plaintive  as  the  coo  of  a  hurt  pigeon,  — 

•"  Rachel,  is  this  the  way  you  receive  an  old  friend  ?  " 

"  Friend !  You  are  no  friend  of  mine !  Leave  me,  —  I 
beg  of  you  leave  me  ! " 

"  Then  you  would  rather  hear  from  me  than  see  me  ?  "  he 
said,  his  voice  even  more  plaintive  than  before,  but  his  eyes 
still  fixed  upon  her  with  a  cold,  serpent-like  stare. 


A     C  II  R  I  3  T  :M  A  S     IN     FEBRUARY.  133 

It  was  true,  she  had  kept  his  letter  two  days,  and  he  had 
a  right  to  misconstrue  her  intentions.  The  thought  shot 
through  her  like  an  arrow,  a  sudden  faintness  came  over  her, 
and  she  sank  down  on  the  settle. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  what  I  would  do  for  you.  I  would  lift 
you  above  every  want !  I  would  make  you  always  happy  ;  " 
and  again  he  advanced  a  few  paces,  his  cold,  serpent-like 
stare  still  upon  her. 

"  Go  away,  oh,  go  away  from  me ! "  she  gasped,  faintly,  and 
with  a  weak,  repellent  gesture. 

"  Go  away,  and  leave  you  starving  in  this  wretched  hovel ! 
you,  who  would  grace  any  palace  in  the  world  !  Oh,  no,  Ra- 
chel !  I  cannot  do  that  !  If  I  did,  I  should  not  be  the  friend 
you  have  known  me." 

And  now  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  placed  his  hand  on 
hers,  as  it  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  settle.  She  attempted 
to  draw  it  away,  but  his  grasp  w^as  firm,  and  her  muscles  were 
powerless. 

A  moment  he  sat  so  in  silence,  then  he  said,  and  his  voice 
now  was  as  soft  and  musical  as  the  strings  of  the  Eolian  when 
stirred  by  the  gentlest  wind  that  ever  came  from  heaven,  — 

"  Rachel,  some  one  has  belied  me ;  I   am  your  friend,  — 

your  best  friend.     It  goes  to  my  heart  to  have  you  meet  me 

so  coldly.     Believe  me,  I  am  your  friend ;  and  I  would  be 

more ; "  and  here  his  arm  crept  about  her  waist,  while  his 

hand   still    grasped   hers,    and   his    serpent-like    stare  —  no 

longer  stealthy  and  cold,  but  fierce  and  hot  with  the  very  fire 

of  hell  —  was  still  fixed  on  her  eyes.     "  I  would  be  more,  — 

I  would  make  you  my  wife.    Your  husband  has  deserted  you  ; 

in  a  few  months  more  you  can  be  free  by  the  law ;  then  I  will 
12 


134  u  X    T  II  K    i;  0  li  1)  i:  n . 

make  you  m}'  wife.  I  willf  believe  me  ;  and,  meanwhile,  your 
every  wish  shall  be  gratified ;  you  shall  have  a  home,  servants, 
friends,  all,  and  more  than  all,  that  your  sot  of  a  husband  lost 
by  his  folly." 

It  is  said  that  the  poor  bird,  caught  bj^  the  spell  of  the 
serpent,  circles  about  the  creature's  head,  gasping  and  flutter- 
ing, but  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  at  last,  it  darts,  a 
M^illing  prey,  into  the  very  jaws  of  the  monster.  So  it  was 
with  Kachel.  She  gasped  for  breath  to  cry  out;  but  the 
words  would  not  come.  She  struggled  to  get  upon  her  feet, 
and  throw  off  his  hold ;  but  her  strength  was  gone,  her 
limbs  I'efused  to  obey  her  will,  and,  at  last,  her  head  sank 
upon  his  shoulder,  and,  panting  and  powerless,  she  lay  at  his 
mercy. 

But  there  is  a  force  in  this  world  that  is  mightier  than  the 
power  of  e%nl.  #It  is  the  love  of  even  the  weakest  of  men  or 
women.  That  force  now  came  between  Weddington  and 
his  victim.  Half-dressed,  her  hair  falling  loosely  about  her, 
her  eyes  glaring,  her  cheeks  hollow,  but  glowing  with  the 
hectic  fire  that  was  burning  at  her  \4tals,  the  mother  of 
Rachel  stood  before  him.  Stamping  her  foot  on  the  floor,  she 
lifted  her  skinny  hand  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Begone  ! "  she  cried ;  "  wretch  —  man  of  hell  —  begone  !  '^ 

He  bounded  to  "his  feet,  and  staggered  a  step  or  two  back- 
ward, startled  from  his  self-control  by  the  sudden  interruption. 
In  an  instant  he  recovered  himself;  but  in  that  instant  he 
had  lost  all  power  over  his  victim.  The  charm  broken, 
Kachel  rose  suddenly  from  the  settle,  and,  seizing  a  rusty 
shot-gun  which  hung  in  the  corner,  turned  upon  him,  her 
face  and  her  eyes  blazing. 


A     C  II  H  I  S  T  ^I  A  S     I  \     y  K  B  K  U  A  K  Y  .  135 

"  Go  —  go,"  she  cried,  "  this  instant  —  or  I  shall  do  a  mur- 
der.'^ 

He  grew  very  pale ;  but  taking  up  his  liat  from  the  table, 
and  fixing  on  her  his  basilisk  eye,  he  said,  coolly,  — 

"  I'll  have  you  yet.  I  haven't  followed  you  so  long  to 
be  balked  at  last." 

The  older  woman  had  stood  supporting  herself  by  the 
table  ;  but  now  she  turned  suddenly,  and,  snatching  the  shot- 
gun from  the  hand  of  Rachel,  levelled  it  at  Weddington.  In 
a  moment  it  exploded  ;  but  the  man  had  bounded,  unharmed, 
tlirough  the  door-way,  —  a  little  longer  to  go  at  large,  a  little 
longer  to  do,  on  this  planet,  the  deeds  of  his  father,  the 
devil. 

Rachel  sprang  to  bar  the  door,  and  as  she  did  so  the  gun 
dropped  from  the  hand  of  her  mother,  and,  staggering  a  step 
or  two,  she  fell  at  full  length  upon  the  floor.  •  She  had  not 
fainted ;  but  reaction  had  come,  and  it  was  only  with  super- 
human effort  that  Rachel  half-dragged,  and  half-carried  her 
to  the  bed  in  the  corner.  Then,  smoothing  back  her  tangled 
hair,  she  said,  — 

"  0  mother !  mother !  I  am  so  afraid  this  has  hurt  you." 

"  No  —  matter  —  if  it   has  I  —  you  is  safe  !  —  but  Rachel 

—  promise    me  —  never   let — let    'Zekiel    out    of    yer   sight 

—  ag'in —  not  —  not  —  while  he's  a  livin'." 

"I  never  will,  mother  —  never!  But  don't  you  look  so, 
mother;  it  frightens  me!  Oh!  I  am  so  afraid  you  are 
hurt ! " 

"  No,  child !  I  don't  feel  no  pain  ;  but  it's  growin'  dark ; 
put  —  some  more  wood  on  the  fire,  —  make  it  burn  up  a 
little— little  brighter." 


136  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  E  i:  . 

"  It  burns  brightly,  —  and  it's  broad  day,  mother  I  "  Now 
a  terrible  fear  came  upon  her.  "  0  mother  !  mother  ! "  she 
cried,  "  are  you  dying  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  child  !  —  only  tired,  —  he  waked  me  up,  you 
know ;  but  —  it's  gittin'  very  dark,  child.  Do  put  —  a  little 
more  wood  —  on  the  fire." 

Rachel  clutched  the  thin,  skinny  fingers,  and  put  her  hand 
upon  the  cold,  pale  forehead. 

"  Do  you  feel  my  touch,  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yas,  —  you's  a  darlin'  chile  ;  —  you^s  allers  borne 
with  —  your  pore  mother,  —  though  she's  been  so  peevish  — 
and  so  —  ongrateful.     Bless   you   for   it,  —  darlin',  —  bless 


you  ;  —  God  "  — 

Her  hand  clutched  her  daughter's  tightly;  her  head  fell 
over  toward  the  wall  of  the  hut ;  and  then,  her  soul  left  this 
world  for  another. 

The  shadows  had  begun  to  creep  around  the  desolate  room, 
when  a  heavy  step  sounded  outside,  and  a  heavy  hand  lifted 
the  wooden  latch  which  closed  the  rude  door-way. 

"Missy,  missy!  It'm  me,  ole  'Zeke,  —  so  don't  you  be 
afeard.  You  done  right  to  bar  de  door,  —  you  did.  'Zeke 
meant  you  shud,  —  dough  he  didn't  tink  a  word  ob  it  till 
five  mile  away.  But,  he  know'd  you  wud,  —  he  know'd 
you  wud,  —  for  you's  de  sensiblist,  and  best  lookin',  too, 
ob  any  young  missy  in  all  Kaintucky." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  as  Eachel  undid  the  barred 
door,  and  let  the  old  man  into  the  room.  He  bore  in  his 
hands  two  immense  baskets,  filled  with  sundry  bundles,  and 
a  variety  of  hams,  chickens,  turkeys,  and  other  defunct  barn- 


A     CHRISTMAS     IN     FEBRUARY.  137 

yard  commodities.  Placing  the  baskets  on  the  floor,  he  went 
on, — 

"Christmus  hab  come  rader  late  dis  y'ar,  missy,  —  way 
onto  de  middle  ob  Febrary,  —  but  it  hab  come  at  lass,  and 
ole  'Zeke  hab  got  'urn  all  yere,  right  in  dese  baskets, 
gowns  and  shawls  and  hoods  and  hams,  and  'nuff  chicken 
fix  ins  to  keep  missus  clar  fru  de  winter.  Wid  sich  broth  as 
you  kin  make  out  ob  dese,  we^l  hab  her  well  in  no  time  ;  " 
and  the  delighted  old  black  held  a  brace  of  fat  pullets  up 
before  the  eyes  of  his  young  mistress. 

"She  needs  nothing  now,  'Zekiel,"  said  Rachel,  turning 
away,  and  resuming  her  seat  on  the  settle. 

"  Keeds  nuffin'  now  ?     What  does  you  mean,  missy  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  stepped  softly  to  the  bed  of 
the  dead  woman.  He  lifted  her  hand,  and  for  a  nioment, 
bent  over  her  cold  features.  Then,  without  a  word,  he 
turned  away,  and  sat  down  in  his  leather-bottomed  chair  in 
the  chimney-corner.  Long  he  sat  there,  gazing  intently  at 
the  fire,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  Ra- 
chel.    At  last  he  looked  up,  and  said,  — 

"  We'se  alone  now,  missy,  —  alone,  wid  nuffin'  in  de  wurle, 
'cept  de  Lord,  and  de  good  angels.  But  don't  you  greab, 
missy,  don't  you  greab.  De  Lord  he  hab  a  big  heart ;  and 
he'm  weepin'  fur  you  now,  jess  loike  he  weep  fur  Lazarus. 
'Zeke  knows  he'm  a  big  heart,  and  dat  he  weep  ober  we  pore 
folk  dat  am  'flicted,  'case  y'ars  and  y'ars  ago  he  come  and 
weep  ober  'Zeke,  when  his  own  mudder  was  dead  in  her 
bed,  loike  you's  am  now  in  de  corner." 

Rachel  covered  her  face  with  her  hands ;  but  said  nothing, 
and  in  a  moment  the  old  black  continued,  — 


138  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  Don't  you  greab,  missy ;  she'm  better  now,  —  better  'an 
she  was  dis  mornin'.  'Zeke  'members  when  she  was  young 
as  you,  —  and  how  handsome  she  was  den !  how  beautiful ! 
But  she'm  handsomer  now ;  she'm  younger  now.  Massa 
John  say  dat  dey  grow  younger  up  dar  ebery  day,  till  dey  gits 
to  be  jess  so  young  and  handsome  and  innercent  as  little  chillen. 
So  don't  you  greab  no  more,  missy.  Tink  no  more  'bout  it ; 
but  jess  you  git  'Zeke  his  supper,  like  a  good  missy.  He 
haint  had  a  mossel  to  eat  since  dis  time  lass  evenin'." 

"  Nothing  to  eat ! "  said  Rachel,  rising,  and  hanging  the 
kettle  over  the  fire.  "  Why !  didn't  you  have  your  breakfast 
and  dinner  in  the  village  ?  " 

"  No,  missy.  'Zeke  hadn't  more'n  druv  inter  de  village 
'fore  he  seed  a  great  crowd  of  folk  gwine  inter  town  meetin*. 
He  axed  what  it  all  was  'bout,  and  dey  say  it  was  Massa  John 
as  was  a  gwine  to  gib  de  Secesh  hail,  fire,  and  brimstun,  — 
he'd  done  it,  dey  say,  de  day  afore,  at  Piketon.  Wall,  arter 
dat,  'Zeke  forgot  all  'bout  de  gowns,  and  eben  de  chicken 
fixins  for  de  pore  missus ;  and  he  hitched  de  ole  mule  under 
a  shed,  and  went  inter  de  court  house.  It  was  cram  jam 
full,  all  wid  white  folk,  but  'Zeke  he  wedged  fru  'um,  and  close 
up  to  whar  Massa  John  and  a  whole  lot  ob  big  gemmen  was 
a-sittin'  on  de  platform. 

"  Fuss  dat  ar'  ole  debil,  Cecil,  he  got  up,  and  talked  'way 
'bout  de  rights  of  de  Souf,  and  how  dey  was  a-trod  on,  —  he 
mean  de  big  planters,  as  neber  done  a  stroke  ob  work,  neber 
was  ob  no  use  to  nobody,  and  allers  had  a  hun'red  darkies  to 
tend  on  'um.  Dat  was  'bout  aU  he  say ;  but  he  stormed  'way 
for  a  hour  like  a  wild  critter,  and  den  he  sot  down,  and  Massa 
John   he    come   to  de   front  ob  de  platform.     He    look  jess 


A     CHRISTMAS     IN     FEBRUARY.  139 

loike  be  done  when  he  was  yere,  wid  his  homespun  clo'es, 
liis  long  hair,  and  his  great  white  forrard.  Wall,  he  come  to 
de  front  ob  de  platform,  and  de  fuss  word  be  say  was,  '  De 
wrong  haint  no  rights  dat  eider  man  or  de  Lord  am  bound  to 
'spect ;  and  you  go  out  ob  de  Union,  and  you's  in  de  wrong, 
and  you's  outlaws.' 

"  He  go  on  wid  a  good  deal  moi*e  ob  dat  sort,  and  den  he 
come  onto  some  argumens  dat  'Zeke  neber  yered  afore.  He 
say,  fuss,  dat  de  Lord  hab  made  dis  one  kentry,  and  dat  man 
couldn't  make  it  two  nohow.  Dat  all  de  big  ribers  and  all  de 
big  mount'ins  dey  run  norf  and  souf,  and  dar  was  nowhar 
dat  you  could  run  a  line  east  and  west,  dat  eben  de  bery 
smallest  debil  couldn't  git  over;  and  he  say,  ^  Jess  you  try 
to  run  sich  a  line,  and  de  little  debils  dey'll  allers  be  a-gittin' 
ober,  on  both  sides,  and  keepin'  up  a  war  all  de  time.'  Den 
he  say,  second,  dat  union  was  de  bery  order  ob  natur' ;  and 
dat  dis  Union  was  a-fashioned  jess  as  de  Lord  fashioned  de 
universe.  Dat  ebery  whar  dar  was  big  and  little,  centre  and 
s'cumference  ;  and  dat  all  creation  was  only  a  great  wheel,  wid 
a  hub  in  de  middle,  spokes  on  de  sides,  and  a  felly  round  de 
whole,  and  dat  it  would  all  fall  to  pieces  and  go  to  rack  and 
ruin  if  you  took  out  de  hub  or  de  spokes,  or  tore  off  de  felly. 
And  den  he  'lustrated  de  idee  hy  de  solar  system.  He  say  de 
sun  gib  light  and  heat  to  all  de  planets,  and  holt  'um  all  to- 
gedder,  so  dey  neber  stray  away,  but  hab  reg'lar  summer  and 
winter,  and  seed-time  and  harvest  allers.  Wall,  he  say,  '  De 
gubment  at  Washington  am  de  sun  to  dis  Union  ;  it  gibs 
light  and  heat  to  all  de  States  and  de  territories ;  and  you 
blot  dat  out,  and  you'll  all  go  wand'ring  off,  lost  inter  de  outer 
darkness.' 


140  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  'Zeke  neber  yered  sich  talk,  —  it  was  chain  lightnin' ;  and 
Massa  John,  his  face  was  a  bonfire,  and  his  eyes,  dey  was 
two  blazin'  knots  of  light-wood.  De  folks  dey  neber  said  a 
word,  but  was  as  still  as  mice  de  whole  time  he  was  a-talkin' ; 
but  when  he  got  fru,  you  neber  yered  sich  a  noise.  Dey  got 
up,  and  dey  shouted,  and  dey  cheered,  and  lots  ob  'um  corned 
ui"),  and  hugged  him,  and  a'most  killed  him  wid  kindness. 
Finarly  de  meetin'  it  broke  up  ;  but  ole  'Zeke  he  stayed,  and 
at  lass  Massa  John  he  got  his  eye  onto  him.  Den  he 
beckoned  to  'Zeke  to  come,  and  he  went  up  dar,  'mong  all  de 
big  gemmen  on  de  platform ;  and  den  Massa  John  telled  dem 
who  'Zeke  was,  and  dat  he  lubed  him  loike  he  done  his 
own  fader.  He  did,  missy,  an^  'Zeke  had  to  cry,  right  out 
dar  'fore  all  dem  big  gemmen." 

Here  the  old  man  pulled  out  a  great  red  handkerchief, 
wiped  his  eyes,  and,  for  a  few  moments,  was  unable  to  go 
on  with  the  narrative.     At  last  he  said,  — 

"  Dat  was  all,  missy,  'cept  he  say  I  muss  tell  you  he  was 
well,  and  his  fader  dat  dey  was  wid  him,  —  he  mean  de  ole 
Jordans  as  had  de  fiery  tongues  and  was  drowned  in  de  del- 
uge.    Wont  de  old  man  be  proud  ob  him,  Missy  Rachel  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will  be !  J  am  proud  of  him ;  we  all  are 
proud  of  him,  'Zekiel." 

An  hour  later  the  two  went  to  their  beds,  —  his,  a  blanket 
before  the  fire ;  hers,  the  negro's  scanty  cot  in  the  corner 
of  the  attic. 


CHAPTER    YIII 


A    TRAGEDY. 


rilTHIN   the    thirty   days  that   followed  the    events 

MvTffli  recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  the  quiet  district,  which 

is  the  scene  of  our  story,  felt  the  first  rising  of  the 

great  tide  that  had  already  swept  the  Gulf  States 


from  their  moorings  in  the  Union.  At  its  every  cross-roads 
began  a  war  of  words,  which  was  soon,  very  soon,  to  become 
a  war  of  a  much  more  deadly  character.  At  the  outset,  the 
two  principal  speakers  who  canvassed  the  district,  conducted 
the  wordy  contest  with  an  order  and  decorum  which  does  not 
always  accompany  similar  controversies  ;  but  soon  Cecil,  mor- 
tified beyond  endurance  by  the  frequent  discomfitures  he 
received  from  his  homespun  opponent,  resorted  to  personal 
threats,  which  so  exasperated  the  friends  of  Jordan,  that 
actual  violence  followed  on  several  occasions.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  at  an  open-air  meeting  near  Jordan's  home,  knives 
were  drawn,  and  revolvers  fired,  and  to  such  a  length  did  the 
disturbance  go,  that  the  life  of  Cecil  might  have  been  sacri- 
ficed but  for  the  timely  interference  of  Jordan.  When  the 
excitement  was  somewliat  allayed,  the  young  man  mounted 
the  platform,  and  said  to  the  multitude,  — 

"  I  regret  the   violent  words   into  which   Judge   Cecil  has 

(Ul) 


142  ON     THE     BORDER. 

been  betrayed ;  and  I  do  not  intend  to  retort  in  similar  lan- 
guage. I  came  here  to  speak  for  peace,  —  to  appeal  to  the 
reason,  and  not  to  the  passions,  of  my  fellow-citizens ;  and  I 
now  give  notice,  that  if  similar  language  is  again  employed, 
or  a  similar  disturbance  again  occurs,  either  here  or  else- 
where, I  shall  give  up  the  discussion  and  go  to  my  home, 
leaving  the  public  to  come  to  its  own  conclusion  as  to 
who  does,  and  who  does  not,  desire  the  best  good  of  the  coun- 
try." 

Goaded  by  these  words  beyond  all  sense  of  prudence,  Cecil 
rose,  and  turned  upon  the  auditory,  his  face  pale,  and  his  eyes 
blazing  with  passion. 

"  Who  cares,"  Jie  cried,  "  whether  the  fellow  goes  on  with 
the  discussion,  or  goes  home  to  his  shanty,  and  his  dunghill  ? 
Does  he  suppose  that  other  men  estimate  him  as  he  estimates 
himself?  I  have  consented  to  bandy  words  with  the  low 
fellow  only  out  of  respect  to  the  people,  and  because  I  think 
a  man  may  be  a  man  even  if  he  is  a  horse-trader.  But 
now  I  give  notice  that  I  will  discuss  with  him  no  longer. 
If  the  other  side  wants  to  be  heard  in  these  meetings,  it 
must  select  a  speaker  in  some  way  'my  equal,  —  one  who 
is  a  gentleman." 

.  The  meeting  was  crowded  with  Jordan's  neighbors  and  per- 
sonal friends,  and  this  indiscreet  speech  renewed  the  tumult, 
and  might  have  cost  Cecil  dearly,  had  not  Jordan  sprang 
quickly  to  his  feet,  saying,  — 

"  No  violence,  my  friends,  no  violence  !  Every  man  here 
who  loves  order,  or  his  country,  will  now  go  quietly  to  his 
home,  and  take  no  notice  of  the  insulting  language  of  Judge 
Cecil.     I  shall  not  continue  the  discussion  ;  it  might  lead  to 


A     TRAGEDY.  143 

bloodshed ;  and  /shall  not  be  the  first  to  light  the  fire  which, 
I  see,  must  soon  sweep  over  Kentucky." 

Saying  this,  he  descended  from  the  platform,  mounted  his 
horse,  and  with  his  younger  brother,  and  a  score  of  his  neigh- 
bors, rode  away  to  the  rude  cabin  among  the  mountains. 
There  he  remained  for  a  time,  —  a  silent  but  interested 
spectator  of  the  thick-coming  events  which  soon  involved  the 
country  in  one  of  the  most  gigantic  and  bloody  struggles  that 
redden  the  pages  of  history. 

All  discussion  had  ceased;  but  the  dragon's  teeth  had 
been  sown,  and  they  brought  forth  a  harvest  of  discord. 
Father  became  arrayed  against  son,  family  against  family, 
neighborhood  against  neighborhood;  and  soon  the  district 
experienced  all  the  evils  of  civil  strife,  except  its  rapine 
and  carnage.  Men  had  for  months  been  mustering  for  both 
sides  of  the  conflict ;  and  directly  over  the  river,  the  brave 
Rosecrans  had  for  months  been  fighting  the  brilliant  series 
of  battles  which  saved  West  Virginia  to  the  Union ;  but  not 
till  the  middle  of  summer  did  the  red  devil  of  war  begin  to 
sprinkle  this  peaceful  region  with  his  fiery  baptism. 

Kentucky  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  mock  neutrality,  by 
which  its  leading  men  hoped  to  cloak  their  hostility  to  the 
government,  and  most  effectually  serve  the  South ;  and  early 
in  August  the  governor  issued  a  proclamation,  commanding 
all  persons  having  arms  belonging  to  the  State  to  deliver 
them  up  immediately.  This  gave  opportunity  to  the  State 
Guard,  a  secession  organization,  to  enter  the  houses  of 
Union  men,  and,  under  color  of  law,  to  take  away  their 
rifles  and  shot-guns,  —  in  fact  to  disarm  every  loyalist  in  the 
Commonwealth.  • 


144  ox     T  II  K     B  O  R  I>  K  R  . 

The  natural  result  followed.  The  Union  men  of  nearly 
every  county  met  and  banded  together  to  resist  these  high- 
handed proceedings.  One  of  these  bands,  numbering  about  a 
hundred  men,  was  organized  by  Jordan  ;  and  late  in  Septem- 
ber, about  an  equal  number  of  the  State  Guard  having  en- 
tered the  district  to  disarm  the  inliabitants,  a  collision  ensued 
between  the  two  forces,  in  which  one  man  was  killed,  and 
two  were  badly  wounded.  One  of  the  wounded  men  was  a 
nephew  of  Judge  Cecil. 

A  writ  was  then  issued  by  Cecil,  charging  Jordan  and  a 
dozen  others  with  murder  ;  and  a  body  of  three  hundred  was 
despatched  to  take  them  into  custody.  Hearing  of  their 
coming,  and  being  too  weak  to  make  a  successful  resistance, 
Jordan  and  the  others  named  in  the  indictment  took  to  the 
w^oods,  and  remained  secreted  until  the  departure  of  the 
rebels.  Balked  in  the  intended  arrests,  the  party  of  Cecil 
turned  upon  the  inhabitants,  and  took  away  the  arms  of 
every  loyal  man  in  the  district. 

Meanwhile,  though  the  country  people  generally  remained 
lo3'al,  the  residents  of  the  towns  had  become  thoroughly  inoc- 
ulated with  the  virus  of  secession,  and  large  bodies  of  armed 
men  had  gathered  in  the  principal  places.  Early  in  Sep- 
tember, the  force  collected  near  Piketon  numbered  nearly 
two  thousand;  and  then  the  rebel  leaders,  emboldened  by 
the  defenceless  condition  of  the  Unionists,  ventured  upon 
an  act  of  general  conscription.  Orders  were  published,  sum- 
moning every  able-bodied  man  in  the  district,  between  the 
ages  of  eighteen  and  forty-five,  to  report  for  military  duty, 
within  ten  days,  at  the  camp  of  Colonel  John  S.  Williams, 
in  the  vicinity-  of  Piketon.  *  " 


A     TRAGEDY.  145 

Seeing  that  neutrality  was  no  longer  possible,  numbers  of 
loyal  men, -who  had  not  already  volunteered  in  the  army  that 
was  mustering  across  the  Ohio,  at  once  repaired  to  the  various 
rendezvouses  where  Union  regiments  were  being  formed,  and  of- 
fered their  services  to  the  government.  Jordan,  meanwhile, 
had  been  lying  out  in  the  woods,  to  escape  a  rebel  band  of  two 
hundred  which,  under  Weddington,  was  scouring  the  dis- 
trict to  eftect  his  arrest ;  but  now  he  appeared  openly,  one 
morning,  in  the  little  hamlet,  and  in  half  an  hour  a  dozen 
horsemen  were  riding  over  the  hills,  calling  all  loyal  men  to 
a  meeting  at  the  little  church  on  the  Weddington  plantation. 
They  came  armed  with  clubs,  staves,  scythes,  and  the  few 
rifles  that  had  been  saved  from  the  clutches  of  the  State 
Guard,  and  by  nightfall  fifty  had  assembled.  Then,  led  by 
Jordan,  they  set  out  to  join  the  Fourteenth  Regiment  of  Ken- 
tucky Infantry,  which,  under  Colonel  Moore,  was  mustering 
at  Louisa,  twenty  miles  distant. 

They  had  proceeded  about  half  way,  and  were,  at  midnight, 
watering  their  horses  at  a  stream  near  the  little  hamlet  of 
Peach  Orchard,  when  the  troop  of  Weddington  suddenly 
issued  from  the  woods  that  lined  the  road,  and  surrounded 
them.  The  rebel  had  been  apprised  of  their  destination  by  a 
mounted  spy;  and,  outnumbered  four  to  one,  and  poorly 
armed  as  they  were,  they  had  no  alternative  but  surrender. 
They  were  conveyed  at  once  by  forced  marches  to  the  rebel 
camp  near  Piketon. 

There  the  larger  number,  intimidated  by  threats  of  a  crim- 
inal trial  for  their  participation  in  the  skirmish  of  September, 
enlisted  in  the  rebel  ranks,  and  took  the  oath  of  allegiance  to 
the  Confederacy.     A  few,  however,  steadily  refused  the  over- 

13 


146  ON     THE     BORDER. 

tures  of  the  secession  leader,  and  among  these  few  was  Jor- 
dan. When  informed  of  his  refusal,  Colonel  Williams  directed 
h\vn  to  be  brought  into  his  tent,  and  something  like  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  ensued  between  them. 

Looking  at  his  manacled  limbs,  the  colonel  said,  — 

"  IVIr.  Jordan,  I  am  sony  to  see  you  in  irons ; "  then,  turn- 
ing angrily  to  an  aid,  he  added,  "  By  whose  order  was  this 
done,  sir  ?  " 

"Judge  Cecil's,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  colonel  to  Jordan ;  "  Judge  Cecil  is  not 
your  friend,  I  have  discovered." 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Jordan.  "For  twenty  years  he  has 
been  my  father's  enemy ;  now  he  is  mine." 

"  Well,  I  command  this  camp,"  said  the  colonel  to  his  aid, 
"Take  off  Mr.  Jordan's  irons.  Do  it  at  once.  Sit  down, 
Mr.  Jordan." 

Jordan  seated  himself  on  a  camp-stool,  and  no  more  was 
spoken  until  the  manacles  were  removed.  Then  Colonel 
Williams  said,  — 

"Now  we  can  talk  together  like  gentlemen.  We  are 
strangers  to  each  other,  Mr.  Jordan  ;  but  I  have  heard  of  you, 
and  I  have  a  high  respect  for  your  talents  and  character. 
This  induces  me  to  make  you  a  proposition  I  would 
make  to  few  men,  who,  like  you,  were  under  arrest  for  a 
capital  crime." 

Jordan  answered,  — 

"  I  thank  you,  colonel,  for  your  good  opinion,  and  will  be 
glad  to  hear  any  proposition  from  so  courteous  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jordan,"  replied  the  colonel.     "  I  wanted 


A     TRAGEDY.  147 

to  say,  that  with  your  talents,  and  influence  in  your  district, 
you  could,  in  the  troubles  that  are  now  upon  us,  greatly  serve 
your  native  State,  and  rise  to  almost  any  position  in  the  army. 
Take  the  oath,  and  go  home  and  recruit  for  us,  and  I  will 
make  you  a  captain  on  the  spot,  and,  if  you  raise  five  hundred 
volunteers,  will  pledge  my  word  that  you  shall  have  a  colonel's 
commission  from  Richmond." 

"I  thank  you,  colonel,"  answered  Jordan,  coldly.  "I 
would  sooner  fight  you  as  a  private  in  a  Union  regiment." 

"But  that  is  not  the  alternative,  Mr.  Jordan,"  said  the 
colonel,  with  the  same  bland  civility.  "  It  is  trial  for  mur- 
der ;  and  you  know  before  whom,  —  Judge  Cecil.  He  has 
already  opposed  my  making  you  this  proposition." 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me,  sir,"  answered  Jordan,  "  and  I 
know  that  a  trial  before  him  would  be  a  conviction  j  but  that 
does  not  alter  ray  decision." 

The  colonel  now  rose  to  his  feet,  and  taking  two  or  three 
turns  up  and  down  the  tent,  he  said,  with  a  warmth  that  was 
in  striking  contrast  with  his  previous  cool  civility,  — 

"  You  are  a  splendid  fellow,  Jordan  ;  but  listen  to  me  !  It 
would  be  death !  certain  death  !  Now,  your  life  is  in  my 
hands ;  but  let  me  once  turn  you  over  to  the  civil  authority, 
and  I  couldn't  save  you.  All  Kentucky  couldn't  save  you  j 
you   would  surely  die," 

Jordan's  face  was  as  impassive  as  marble;  but  his  deep 
gray  eye  gave  out  the  singular  light  which  has  already  been 
mentioned.     With  his  usual  coolness,  he  said,  — 

"  You  are  mistaken,  colonel.  My  life  is  not  in  your  hands. 
Eighteen  huudred  years  ago,  one  man  said  to  another,  '  You 
could  have  no   power   over  me,  were  it  not  given  you  from 


148  ON     THE     BORDER. 

above/  Those  words  are  as  true  now  as  when  they  were 
spoken." 

The  colonel  paused  in  his  hurried  walk,  and  looked  at 
Jordan  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said,  — 

"  They  are  true,  and  you  have  found  out  the  secret  of  real 
bravery.  I  would  not  have  the  blood  of  such  a  man  as  you 
on  my  hands,  for  the  universe.  There  is  the  book  we  both 
venerate."  And  he  drew  from  his  left  breast  pocket  a  small 
and  well-worn  Bible.  "  It  was  given  me  by  my  mother,  who 
is  now  in  heaven.  Promise  me,  upon  it,  that  you  will  not 
bear  arms  against  the  Confederacy,  and  that  you  will  leave 
Kentucky  within  a  fortnight,  and  though  it  may  cost  me 
my  commission,  —  for  the  eyes  of  some  of  our  leaders  are  on 
you,  —  you  shall  go  as  free  as  I  am." 

"  Colonel,  you  are  a  true  man,  but  I  cannot  make  that 
promise.  If  I  live,  I  shall  do  all  I  can  for  my  State  and 
my  Country." 

"  You  would  ruin  both  them  and  yourself.  Don't  be  rash. 
Take  time  to  think  of  it,  —  a  day,  a  week,  a  month,  —  and 
in  the  mean  while  you  shall  have  respectful  treatment." 

"  I  need  no  time.  A  year  would  not  alter  my  decision," 
said  Jordan,  rising  fi'om  his  seat,  and  straightening  up  his  bent 
form  with  the  air  of  quiet  dignity  that  was  natural  to  him. 

"  Then  may  God  forgive  you,  Jordan,  for  you  will  do  self- 
murder.  It  is  painful  to  me,  very  painful ;  but  I  must  do  my 
duty." 

"Do  it,  colonel.  I  acquit  you  of  all  blame.  Now* let  me 
go  back  to  the  guard-house." 

"No,  you   will   have   to   go  to  the  jail  at   Piketon.     The 


A     T  U  A  G  K  D  y  .  1  I'J 

moment  you  leave  this  tent  you  are  out  of  my  hands;  and 
then  —  think  of  it  again — I  can  do  nothing." 

*'  I  know,  colonel ;  but  —  good-by,"  and  Jordan  held  out 
his  hand,  which  the  other  grasped,  and  held  while  he  was 
speaking.  "  Strange  things  sometimes  happen;  and  we  may 
meet  again ;  if  we  do,  I  shall  try  to  return  your  courtesy." 

The  colonel  wrung  his  hand,  but  made  no  reply,  and 
within  an  hour,  Jordan,  though  not  as  yet  declared  guilty, 
was  loaded  with  irons,  and  a  tenant  of  the  condemned  cell  in 
the  prison  in  Piketon. 

His  trial  took  place  in  about  a  fortnight.  It  was  shown  by 
the  testimony  of  two  rebel  officers,  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
skirmish,  that  he  did  not  fire  a  shot;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
exerted  all  his  influence  to  prevent  a  collision  between  the 
two  forces;  but  Cecil  was  judge,  and  it  was  a  packed  jurj^,  — 
packed,  because  the  town  was  in  the  possession  of  the  Confed- 
erates, and  not  a  man  had  the  courage  to  give  his  vote 
against  the  prevailing  sentiment.  The  verdict  was  "guilty," 
and  the  sentence,  the  gallows  the  following  Friday. 

Jordan  was  taken  again  to  the  jail,  thrust  again  into  the 
condemned  cell,  and  now,  to  make  escape  impossible,  was 
chained  to  the  stone  floor  of  the  prison.  No  one  was  allowed 
to  visit  him  ;  but,  at  last,  on  the  evening  preceding  the  ap- 
pointed Friday,  a  short,  thick-set,  red-faced  man,  who  had 
been  employed  by  Colonel  Williams  in  gathering  beeves  for 
the  army,  presented  himself  to  the  jailer  with  a  note  from 
that  officer,  requesting  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  take  the 
prisoner's  last  words  to  his  father  and  mother. 

The  jailer  at  first  protested  that  his  orders  were  strict,  — 
no  one  could  be  admitted  ;   but  the  man  found  a  ready  mode 

13* 


150  ON     THE     BORDER. 

of  overcoming  his  scruples,  and  soon  entered  the  prison,  his 
pocket  the  lighter  by  a  few  half-eagles.  Once  within  its 
walls,  he  was  turned  over  by  the  honest  jailer  to  as  honest  a 
turnkey.  What  message  the  prisoner  gave  the  man  was  not 
known ;  but  when  he  came  out  an  hour  afterward,  he  was 
sensibly  affected.  Wringing  the  jailer's  hand,  he  said,  in 
words  which  were  half  choking  with  emotion,  — 

"  I'd  hang,  myself,  sooner'n  see  that  man  hung.  !My  God, 
sir  !  last  winter  ho  kep'  my  wife  from  starvin'.  I  only  yered 
on  it  to  the  trial." 

The  next  morning  the  jailer,  making  his  accustomed 
round,  looked  in  at  the  cell,  and  found  it  vacant.  A  rickety 
cot,  an  empty  tin  pan,  a  broken  stool,  and  a  huge  heap  of 
chains  were  in  their  accustomed  places  ;  but  the  prisoner  had 
gone,  —  no  one  knew  whither. 

An  angel  once  opened  the  doors  of  Peter's  prison  ;  so  one 
came  that  night  and  did  a  like  service  to  Jordan  ;  but,  to  be 
historically  correct,  I  must  add  that  this  angel  wore  seedy 
butternuts,  chewed  tobacco,  drank  poor  whiskey,  and  swore 
like  a  pirate.  It  was  the  turnkey ;  for  he,  too,  had  flown, 
and,  what  was  quite  as  singular,  it  soon  was  ascertained  that 
the  fine  bay  mare,  which  Jordan  had  ridden  for  some  years, 
but  which  now  was  the  property  of  the  Confederate  com- 
mander himself,  —  and  could  not,  therefore,  possibly  be 
bribed,  —  had,  during  the  night,  also  absconded. 

The  next  morning.  Judge  Cecil  presented  himself  at  the 
head-quarters  of  the  colonel  commanding,  and  demanded  a 
force  of  three  hundred  men  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  prisoner. 

"  Three  hundred  to  capture  one  ! "  exclaimed  the  officer. 
*•'  Why,  you  are  crazy." 


A     TRAGEDY.  161 

"Not  crazy,  sir,"  answered  the  judge,  tartly.  "It's  an 
Union  nest,  and  we  are  liable  to  fall  in  with  scouting  parties 
from  Louisa." 

"  Well,  I  can't  aftbrd  any  men  go  that  distance.  Nelson 
has  moved  into  Kentucky,  and  may  advance  upon  me  at  any 
moment." 

"  And  for  that  reason  a  reconnoissance  might  do  you  a 
service.  I  will  go  along  with  the  troops  and  see  that  you 
get  correct  information." 

"  No,  no ;  I  have  twenty  scouts  at  Nelson's  heels  at  this 
moment.  In  a  week  I  shall  know  all  about  his  movements. 
He  is  recruiting  for  the  grand  army  forming  in  Ohio." 

Balked  in  this  direction,  the  judge  adopted  other  tactics. 

"  Pardon  me,  colonel ;  but  ugly  whispers  are  afloat  about  a 
horse  being  missing  that  once  belonged  to  the  prisoner.  The 
animal,  it  is  thought,  could  hardly  have  been  taken  from  your 
very  head-quarters  without  the  help  of  some  one  connected 
w^ith  3^our  stables.  It  is  said,  too,  that  you  have  censured 
the  proceedings  at  the  trial,  and  expressed  strong  sympathy 
for  Jordan." 

The  colonel  looked  at  the  other  in  a  kind  of  blank  amaze- 
ment. 

"  My  God,  sir ! "  he  said,  "  would  you  intimate  that  I 
know  anything  of  his  escape  ?  " 

"  Not  by  any  means ;  but  if  you  refuse  my  request,  ugly 
remarks  will  be  made,  most  certainly." 

"You  have  said  enough,  sir,"  answered  the  colonel.  "You 
can  have  two  hundred  mounted  men,  —  in  an  hour  they  shall 
be  ready." 

It  was  noon  of  the  following  day,  when  this  body  of  men 


152  ON     THE     BORDER. 

rode  up  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Blaine  and  quietly  sur- 
rounded the  cabin  of  the  elder  Jordan.  A  dozen  then  dis- 
mounting, Cecil  advanced  with  them  to  the  door-way.  His 
summons  was  answered  by  the  customary  "  Come  in,  gentle- 
men," and,  opening  the  door,  the  party  entered.  It  was 
early  in  October,  but  it  was  a  cold  day,  and  a  bright  fire  was 
blazing  on  the  hearth,  before  which  the  family  —  the  elder 
Jordan,  his  wife,  and  Robin,  the  younger  son,  a  manly  lad  of 
about  seventeen  —  were  assembled  at  dinner.  They  all  rose 
on  the  entrance  of  the  soldiers,  and  the  eye  of  the  elder  Jor- 
dan falling  on  Cecil,  he  drew  himself  up  rather  stiffly,  and 
said,  — 

"  To  what  do  I  owe  this  visit,  sir  ?  " 

'^  To  your  traitor  of  a  son.     Is  he  here  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  When  was  he  here  ?  " 

"  He  left  about  an  hour  before  daybreak." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  do  not  know ;  or  that  you  do,  and 
are  not  willing  to  tell  ?  " 

"  I  know  where  he  intended  to  go ;  but  I  am  his  father, 
sir,  —  you  can't  expect  me  to  tell  when  his  life  is  in  question." 

"  I  do  expect  you  to  tell ;  if  you  do  not,  your  own  life  may 
be  in  question." 

"  I  understand  you,  sir.  I  decline  to  betray  my  own  flesh 
and  blood." 

Cecil  had  entered  the  room  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand, 
the  others  with  their  pistols  in  their  belts,  and  their  swords 
in  their  scabbards,  and  they  had  not  yet  drawn  them.     Cecil 


A     TRAGEDY.  153 

now  cocked  his  revolver,  and,  placing  it  close  to  the  ear  of 
Jordan,  said,  — 

''  I  will  ask  you  once  more.  Tell  me  where  your  son  is 
concealed  ?  " 

As  he  said  this,  the  wife  of  Jordan,  who  had  stood  till  now 
apparently  stupefied  with  the  sudden  proceedings,  sprang  for- 
ward, and  falling  at  Cecirs  feet,  and  clasping  his  knees,  she 
cried  out,  frantically,  — 

"  0  Judge  Cecil !  Judge  Cecil !  do  not  hurt  him  !  Oh, 
have  mercy  !  as  you  expect  mercy  of  God,  have  mercy  on  my 
husband !  " 

Cecil  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  Jordan  had  not  answered 
his  question,  and  now  he  repeated  it. 

^'  Will  you  tell  me  where  your  son  is  ?  " 

'■  I  will  not,"  said  Jordan. 

The  pistol  exploded ;  and  the  man  who,  five  short  minutes 
before,  had  been  quietly  eating  in  peace  at  his  own  fireside, 
lay  mortally  wounded  on  his  own  hearth-stone. 

In  another  instant  another  shot  was  fired,  then  another, 
and  another,  and  another,  and  three  of  the  rebels  fell  to  the 
floor,  —  two  of  them  dead,  the  other  severely  wounded.  The 
wounded  man  was  Cecil ;  and,  though  the  boy  Jordan's  hands 
were  now  pinioned  to  his  side  by  the  strong  arms  of  three  of 
the  troopers,  he  still  clutched  the  revolver  which  had  worked 
such  sudden  and  terrible  vengeance. 

"  Secure  him  !  Don't  shoot  him  !  —  hang  him,  —  hang  him 
before  his  own  door-way  I "  cried  Cecil. 

"You'd  better  not!"  yelled  the  boy.  "It  will  take  five 
minutes  to  do  that ;  and  if  I  live  that  long  I  will  have  your 
life,  certain." 


154  ON     THE     BORDER. 

The  smoke  had  now  somewhat  cleared  away,  showing  the 
wife  of  Jordan  kneeling  by  the  side  of  her  fallen  husband. 
He  was  shot  through  the  brain,  but  was  still  living,  though 
breathing  short  and  brokenly. 

"  Die  like  a  man,  my  boy,"  he  gasped.  "  Ruth,  good-by. 
Robin,  we'll  go  together.  Ruth,  tell  John  to  be  worthy  of 
his  ancestors." 

The  hand  that  held  hers  then  relaxed  its  hold,  and  the 
everlasting  gates  opened  to  the  old  Scotchman. 

I  have  no  heart  to  dwell  on  what  followed.  There  are 
some  deeds  at  thought  of  which  one  stands  aghast  when  he 
remembers  that  he  too  is  a  man,  and  that  slumbering  in 
his  own  soul  are  the  passions  which  at  times  transform 
other  men  into  incarnate  devils.  This  was  one  of  those 
deeds.  While  this  mother  was  kneeling  and  pleading  by  the 
side  of  Cecil,  they  took  her  son,  —  her  youngest  born,  the 
joy  of  her  life,  the  hope  of  her  old  age,  the  one  thing  that, 
next  to  God,  she  loved  better  than  she  loved  all  else  in  the 
universe,  —  and  before  her  very  eyes  they  hanged  him  to  the 
great  tree  in  the  little  court-yard. 


CHAPTER   IX 


THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE   END.'' 


T  is  the  night  of  this  day,  and  it  has  come  on  with 
lieavy  clouds,  which  hide  the  moon  and  stars,  and 
shroud  the  lonely  valley  in  thick  darkness.  A  low 
fire  is  burning  on  the  hearth  of  the  little  cabin,  and 
Kachel  sits  by  it,  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  her  face  shad- 
owed by  troubled  and  anxious  thoughts.  The  dinner  things 
are  untouched  on  the  table,  and  about  the  whole  room  is  an 
air  of  careless  disorder,  which  shows  that  its  occupant  has 
been  drawn  away  from  her  daily  cares,  and,  for  the  time, 
paralyzed  by  the  dark  tragedy,  which,  echoing  along  the  little 
stream,  has  already  filled  the  far  mountains  with  sounds  of 
horror. 

After  a  while  the  door  opens,  and  the  old  negro  enters,  the 
shot-gun  in  his  hand,  and  in  his  belt  a  revolver.  Rachel 
looks  up,  and,  springing  to  her  feet,  she  says  in  a  quick,  eager 
way,— 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?     Is  he  coming  ?  " 

"  Yas,  missy ;  he'll  be  yere  in  a  jiffin ;  he'm  to  Massa  Jor- 
dan's." 

"  How  did  you  tell  him  ?  How  does  he  bear  it  ?  Where 
did  you  find  him  ?  Tell  me  all ;  but  don't  speak  loud,  or 
you  will  wake  her." 

(155) 


156  ON     THE     BORDER. 

She  said  this  in  low,  but  rapid  tones,  and  glanced  hastily 
round  at  the  rude  bed  in  the  corner. 

"  And  how  am  she,  missy  ?  "  asked  the  black,  not  heeding 
her  questions.     "  Hab  she  got  all  ober  dem  drefFel  histerics  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  the  opiate  began  to  work  just  after  you  went  away, 
and  ever  since  she's  been  sleeping ;  but  every  now  and  then 
she  tosses  her  arms  about,  and  moans  piteously.  Oh,  it  is 
dreadful !  dreadful ! "  and  she.  clenched  her  hands  together, 
and  turned  her  face  away  for  a  moment.  "To  think  that 
God,  who  they  say  is  so  good,  should  allow  such  wicked- 
ness ! " 

"Dat'm  jess  what  show  He  am  good,  missy.  Dat  idee 
used  to  bother  'Zeke,  till  he  read  in  de  Bible  dat  in  de  oder 
worle  He  gibs  ebery  man  'cordin'  to  his  deeds,  —  sots  de 
sheep  on  de  right  han',  de  goats  on  de  leff." 

"  I  know ;  '  there  the  wricked  cease  from  troubling,  the 
weary  are  at  rest.'  But  what  kept  you  so  long  ?  —  you've 
been  gone  at  least  four  hours." 

"  I  knows,  missy,  and  I  was  afeard  you'd  be  troiibled  ;  but  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  'fore  I  go  away.  You  sees  it  wouldn't  do 
to  go  a  huntin'  Massa  John  in  broad  day,  widout  knowin'  de 
coast  was  cl'ar.  Dis  comed  to  'Zeke,  so  he  went  up  de  valley 
to  Massa  Campbell's,  and  got  him  and  some  ob  de  folks  as 
had  comed  dar  to  talk  ober  de  drefful  ting,  to  scour  de  kentry, 
on  all  de  roads,  fur  five  or  six  mile  all  round.  'Zeke  was  fur 
gwine  hisseff,  too ;  but  de  men-folks  dey  say  'twould  look  sus- 
picious loike  for  him  to  be  scoutin'  round,  and  Missy  Camp- 
bell, she  wouldn't  yere  to  it  nohow,  —  she  say  'Zeke  should 
stay  dar,  and  hab  suffin  to  make  him  warm  and  strong; 
and  de   fac'   am  eber  sense  he  cut  de   pore   chile   down,  and 


"THE     BEGINNING     O  F    T  H  E     E  N  D 


16< 


lay  him  dar,  'longside  ob  ole  Massa  Jordan,  'Zeke  hab  been 
jess  as  weak  as  a  rat,  —  weaker'n  dan  dem  rats  in  de  barn  as 
make  dar  dinner  uv  nights  off  de  hind  legs  ob  de  ole  mule. 
He  !  he  !•"  and  the  old  man  laughed  ;  but  his  voice  was  forced 
and  hollow,  —  more  like  a  wail  than  a  laugh. 
"  Well,  well ;  did  they  find  all  clear  ?  " 
"Yes,  missy;  nobody  stirrin',  and  all  de  folks  eberywhar 
a'most  gone  dead  wid  de  drefful  news  as  de  wind  had  toted 
all  ober  de  kentry.     Well,  dat  tuck   two    hours;  fur  it  was 
dat  long   'fore    de    lass    one   corned  back,    and   ^Zeke  darn't 
start  afore.     Den  he  sot  out  fur  de  big  cave  up  on  de  moun- 
tin,  whar  Massa  John  hided  when  dem  rebel  sodgers  was  in 
de    valley.     H^   warn'tdar;    but   he'd   a-been    dar   widin  a 
hour  or  so,  fur  de  fire  was  a-burnin',  and  some  on  his  dinner 
was  a-hangin'  ober  de  coals,  not  yit  burnt  to  nuthin'.     Den 
'Zeke  he  looked  round  outside  de  cave,  and  found  dar  tracks,— 
Massa  John  and  de  mar's,  —  he  gwine  ahead,  and  de  knowin' 
critter  follerin',  and  steppin'  right  onto  his  footprints,  loike  as 
if  she  knowed  dat  if  dey  was  seed  it  mought  git  him  inter 
trouble.     Dis  idee  'peared  to  come    to  Massa  John  at  lass ; 
fur,  haff  way  down    de  mountin,  he  turned  out  ob  de  path 
inter  de  openin's,  and  dar,  in  de  dead  grass,  'Zeke  lost  'em. 
Den  fur  a  minnit,  he  didn't  know  what  to  do,  or  which  way  to 
turn,  so  he  kneeled  down  to  pray,  and  right  off  to  onct    it 
corned  inter  his  head  to  follow  stret  on  down  de  mountin. 
Dat  would  tuck  him  right  to  Massa  Jordan's,  and  it  didn't 
stand  to  reason  dat  Massa  John  would  go  dar  in  broad  day ; 
but   'Zeke    'membered    him^  to   say   onct   dat    atween    dem 
as  love  one    oder  dar  am  a   sort  ob  telegram  wire  dat  leffs 
one  know  when    de  oder  am  in    trouble.     Massa  John    had 


u 


158  ON     THE     BORDER. 

a  felt  a  blow  on  dat  wire,  and  so  he'd  a-gone  down  wid  his 
dinner  half  eaten.  Well,  'Zeke  went  to  Massa  Jordan's  — 
inter  de  room  whar  dey  am,  and  all  ober  de  house,  and  den 
round  de  barn,  and  de  yard ;  but  Massa  John  warn't  dar,  and 
hadn't  been  dar.  Dar  was  a  plenty  ob  tracks ;  but  dey  all 
was  de  rebels',  as  had  stole  de  wagin  to  tote  off  dat  ar'  ole 
Cecil  and  de  two  dead  ones.  'Zeke  knowed,  'case  Massa 
John  hab  a  foot  dat  covers  nigh  onto  a  haff  acre,  and  de  mar', 
she  hab  a  'quar  shoe  on  'count  ob  de  cracked  hoof  she  got  by 
gwine  too  fass  in  de  hot  sand.  Wall,  ag'in  'Zeke  didn't  know 
which  way  to  turn,  and  dis  time,  as  Massa  Brown  would  say, 
he  was  all  out  ob  his  peckonin'.  He  kneeled  down  to  pray, 
but  somehow  he  couldn't  git  at  de  Lord,  —  couldn't  git  his 
mind  onto  Him  ;  fur  dar  kep'  runnin'  fni  his  head  dem  w^ords 
de  poor  'Squar'  write  in  de  sand,  down  dar  by  de  run,  and 
dat  de  rain  wouldn't  wash  out  till  dey  was  lamed  by  heart  by 
de  whole  plantation.  Seein'  'twarn't  no  use  tryin'  to  pray, 
'Zeke  got  up,  and  den  suffin'  'peared  to  tote  his  legs  right  off 
to  whar  Massa  John  was  a-hidin'." 

"  And  where  was  it  ? "  asked  Rachel,  who  had  listened 
patiently  to  the  old  man's  prolix  narrative,  knowing  very  well 
that  it  was  the  shortest  way  to  arrive  at  the  essential  facts 
she  was  so  eager  to  learn. 

"  Right  dar  whar  de  pore  'Squar'  die  twenty  year  ago,  — 
in  de  little  wigwam.  Massa  John  was  dar  and  de  mar' ;  and 
he  was  a-lyin'  on  de  ground,  and  she  was  a-holtin'  him  in  her 
arms  loike  she'd  a-been  his  mudder." 

'^  Holding  him  in  her  arms  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  you  sees,  missy,  Massa  John  must  hab  made  de 
mar'  lay  down  to  keep  her  quiet,  and  to  keep  hisself  warm 


••THE     R  E  G  I N  N  I  N  O     OF     THE     END."  159 

he  lay  down  aside  ob  her.  He  had  his  head  on  her  neck, 
and  she,  dat  game  fore  leg  ob  hern  doubled  np  ober  him,  and 
a-huggin'  him  down  to  her  as  if  she'd  tuck  all  de  breff  out  ob 
his  body.  But  she  didn't  mean  dat ;  she  knowed  he  was  in 
trouble,  —  de  tender,  pitiful  look  in  her  eyes  said  so ;  and 
when  'Zeke  seed  dem  a-layin'  dar  so  lovin'  tugedder,  and 
thought  ob  how  Massa  John,  —  now  when  he  need  so  much 
lub,  —  hab  no  one  to  lub  him  in  all  de  worle  but  dat  ar'  poor 
dumb  critter,  he  burst  right  out  a-cryin',  he  did,  he  couldn't 
holp  it,  dough  he  had  sot  his  mind  hard,  to  gib  Massa  John 
comfort,  and  not  add  to  his  great  sorrer." 

Here  the  old  man's  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and  he 
sobbed  convulsively.  Rachel  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and,  for  a  moment,  her  frame  shook  with  some  hidden  agony. 
Then  she  said,  with  a  trembling  voice,  and  words  that  were 
broken  and  quivering,  — 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he  has  !    All  the  world  loves  him  !  " 
Nothing  more  was  said  for  some  minutes  ;   then  the  old 
negro  looked  up,  and  went  on  with  his  story. 

"  Massa  John  bounded  to  his  feet,  when  ole  'Zeke  goed 
inter  de  wigwam,  —  he  comed  onto  him  so  sudden,  —  but 
when  he  seed  who  it  was,  he  said,  cooler'n  'Zeke  says  it,  ^It 
hab  come,  'Zekiel,  —  my  wuck ;  dis  am  de  beginnin'  ob  de 
end.' " 

"  Then  he  knew  ;  —  he  had  been  to  the  cabin  ?  " 
"  No,  missy,  he  didn't  know  a  ting ;  he'd  only  felt  de  blow 
on  de  wire,  and  de  great  shadder  dat'm  come  onto  de  fambly. 
But  he'd  tuck  it  all  in,  like  dey  does  in  de  oder  worle.  Up 
dar,  you  knows,  dey  don't  talk  loike  we  does.  Dey  jess  gin  a 
look  or  speak  a  word,  so  Massy  John  say,  to  leff  'em  git  hold 


IGO  ON     THE     B  O  K  D  E  1{  . 

ob  de  end  ob  de  tread,  and  den  dey  hab  it  all  unwound  in  a 
twinklin'.  Dar  sense  and  'telligence  am  so  'cute,  be  say, 
'case  dey  hab  brung  dar  natur's  inter  'cord  wid  de  Lord's 
natur',  and  de  true  order  ob  creation.  Dat'm  why  Massa 
John  hab  sech  a  wonderful  look  inter  tings,  'case  he  hab 
brung  his  natur'  so  inter  'cord  wid  de  Lord's  natur'.  Ifm 
so ;  for  Massa  John  say  dat  ar'  sort  ob  eyesight  hab  growed 
on  him  jess  so  fast  as  he  hab  growed  more  and  more  like  de 
Lord  Jesus,  and  now  he'm  got  so  much  loike  him  dat  he  can 
feel  dem  fine  strings  dat  run  all  fru  all  tings,  and  am  sort  ob 
nerves  to  de  great  Lord  ob  de  universe.  Dat'm  de  reason, 
too,  Massa  John  say,  why  de  Lord  Jesus  could  see  so  fur  inter 
de  futur',  and  do  dem  great  miracles,  —  'case  his  natur'  was  so 
in  'cord  wid  de  Lord's  natur'  dat  de  Lord  could  wuck  wid  his 
nerves,  and  use  his  hands  and  feet  loike  dey  was  his  own. 
If  anybody  else  had  such  a  natur'  as  de  Lord  Jesus,  dey 
might  see  and  do  jess  what  he  done  ;  but  dey  haint,  and  dey 
neber  will  hab,  'case  He  was  de  only  begotten,  —  born  to  be 
de  Lord  ob  all  dis  part  ob  creation." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Rachel,  with  a  slight  gesture  of  im- 
patience.    "  How  did  he  bear  it,  when  you  told  him  all  ?  " 

"  'Zeke  didn't  tell  him,  missy ;  he  hadn't  de  heart  to  tell 
him.  He  jess  sot  down  onto  de  ole  stool  as  used  to  be  the 
poor  'Squar's,  and  cried ;  dat  was  all  'Zeke  done,  and  all  he 
could  do." 

"  And  what  did  John  say  ?  " 

"  Xuffin' ;  only  he  telled  de  mar'  to  lay  right  dar  till  he 
comed  back,  and  den  he  sot  out  to  go  to  Massa  Jordan's.  It 
was  haff  a  hour  by  sun,  and  'Zeke  was  afeard  he'd  be  seed, 
so  he  run'd  arter  him,  and  at  lass   got  him  to  come  back, 


"THE     B  E  G  I  N  N  I  N  O     OF     THE     END."  161 

aud  sot  down  in  de  wigwam.  Den  he  say  a^'in  that  his 
wuck  had  begun,  dat  he  was  a  gwine  off  dis  bery  night,  — 
'Zeke  don't  know  war,  —  but  'bout  some  great  ting,  dat'll 
cFar  ebery  rebel  out  ob  all  dis  region." 

"  Going  away  to  night !  "  exclaimed  Eachel,  in  an  alarmed, 
excited  tone.  Soon,  however,  she  asked,  calmly,  "  When  did 
you  go  to  the  cabin  ?  " 

"  Jess  arter  sundown  Massa  John  opened  de  door,  and  he 
and  'Zeke  goed  in  turgedder.  De  fire  hadn't  gone  cl'ar 
out,  and  dar  was  'nuff  light  to  see  all  in  de  room.  Dey 
laid  right  afore  de  fire,  —  Ma^sa  Jordan  on  de  h'arth,  and 
Massa  Robin  'longside  ob  him,  wid  his  arm  round  his  fader, 
—  3^ou  sees  when  'Zeke  leff  de  chile  down  on  de  floor,  de  arm 
fell  so,  and  he  hadn't  de  heart  to  tuck  it  away ;  but  he  jess 
leff  'em  dar,  in  one  anoder's  arms,  loike  as  if  dey  was  sleepin'. 
When  Massa  John  seed  'em,  he  sunk  down  onto  de  floor,  and 
gave  out  sech  a  cry,  —  sech  a  cry  as  'Zeke  neber  yered,  — 
never  but  onct,  missy,  and  dat  was  from  him,  off  dar  in  de 
snow,  dat  cole  night  when  you  telled  him  you  and  Massa 
Brown  was  to  be  married." 

Rachel  uttered  a  stifled  moan,  clenched  her  hands  tightly 
above  her  head,  and  tlien,  in  sharp,  piercing  tones,  cried 
out, — 

"  Oh,  don't !  'Zekiel,  don't !  Spare  me  !  I  well  deserve  it 
all ;  but,  0  'Zekiel,  don't !  it  will  kill  me  !  '^ 

Tlie  old  man  rose,  and  -sat  down  on  the  settle  beside  her. 
Then  he  wound  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  drew  her  head 
down  upon  his  shoulder ;  but  he  said  nothing.  They  sat  so, 
neither  of  them  speaking,  until  they  heard  the  cry  of  an  owl, 
sounding  some   distance   away,  in  the   direction  of  Jordan's 

14* 


162  ON     THE     BORDER. 

cabin.  Rising  quickly  to  his  feet,  Ezokiel  went  out  of  the 
house,  and  m  a  moment  sent  up  an  answering  hoot  from  in 
front  of  the  doorway.  Another  then  sounded,  not  so  far 
away,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened,  and  Jordan 
entered  the  cabin. 

His  face  was  very  pale ;  but  the  singular  light  was  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  hopeful,  almost  radiant,  look  was  on  his  features. 
Rachel  sprang  from  her  seat  and  bounded  toward  him.  Their 
four  hands  met,  and  so  they  stood  for  many  minutes,  look- 
ing into  each  other's  eyes,  and  saying  only.  "  John ! " 
"Rachel!" 

At  last  Jordan  glanced  about  the  room  and  asked,  — 
"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  There  ;  "  and  she  pointed  to  the  bed  in  the  corner. 
He  went  to  it,  and,  bending  down  over  the  sleeper,  kissed 
her   on   the   forehead.      Then,  touching   her   gently  on   the 
shoulder,  he  said,  —  • 

"  Mother,  mother,  wake  up  !  It  is  me,  —  John  ;  in  a  few 
minutes  I  must  be  going." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  gazed  vacantly  at  him  for  a  few 
moments.  Then,  rising  on  the  bed,  she  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  cried,  — 

"  0  John  !  John !  Is  it  you  ?  I  thought  it  war  Robin, 
and  he  war  a  callin'  me." 

"  It  is  Robin,  mother.  I  will  be  Robin  to  you  now ;  and 
what  I  can't  be,  Rachel  will,  —  she  will  never  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me  !  You're  not  going  awaj^,  —  you  can't  go  away, 
and  leave  me  all  alone.  Haint .  you  yered  about  your  father 
and  Robin  ?  "  and  she  clung  to  him  wildly. 

"Yes,  mother.     I  have  been  there.     I  know  it  all,  —  all! 


"  T  H  i:     li  E  (i  I  N  N  I  N  G     O  1      THE     E  N  D  ."  163 

But,  come,  try  to  get  up.  Muster  all  your  strength,  and 
be  as  calm  as  you  can,  for  I  have  much  to  say ;  .and  time 
is  pressing.     I  must  be  thirty  miles  away  before  daylight." 

She  rose  feebly  to  her  feet.  Her  face  was  ghastly  white, 
and  she  tottered  like  a  young  child  as  he  supported  her  to 
a  seat  on  the  settle.  As  they  went  forward,  he  said  to  the  old 
man,  — 

''  'Zekiel,  bar  the  door,  hang  something  before  the  win- 
dows, and  put  out  some  of  the  logs,  so  the  fire  wont  blaze  so 
brightly.  There  may  be  prowlers  about,  and,  just  now,  my 
life  is  worth  something  to  Kentucky." 

As  the  negro  did  as  he  was  bidden,  Jordan  said  to  Ra- 
chel, — 

"  Rachel,  have  you  any  brandy  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yas,  Massa  John,"  quickly  responded  the  old  man,  draw- 
ing a  flask  from  his  breast-pocket.  "  Yere'm  some.  Missy 
Campbell  guv  it  to  ole  *Zeke,  and  it  put  de  breaf  ob  life  inter 
him  when  he  feel  a'most  as  bad  as  Miss}^  Jordan." 

When  his  mother  had  swallowed  some  of  the  stimulant,  she 
said,  — 

"I  feel  stronger  now.  Go  on,  John  —  I  kin  yere  ye; 
and  I  know  ye  wouldn't  go  away  without  ye  was  obleeged 
to." 

"  No,  mother,  I  wouldn't ;  and  I  hope  to  come  back  soon  — 
within  a  month  at  the  latest.  In  the  mean  time,  I  want  you 
to  stay  here  with  Rachel.  She  will  take  good  care  of  you, 
and,  when  I  come,  I  will  take  you  both  to  Ohio,  with 
^Zekiel ;  and,  'Zekiel,  the  negroes  can  then  go  along,  too,  for 
the  court  has  removed  the  injunction,  and  they  are  as  free 
now  as  I  am." 


164.  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  E  i;  . 

"Free,  Massa  John  !  Free!  "  cried  the  old  man,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  and  bounding  into  the  air  as  if  he  were 
a  boy  practising  for  a  leap  over  a  five-barred  gate.  "  Free, 
Massa  John !  Den  why  can't  dey  go  now,  to  onct  ?  'Zeke 
don't  want  to  wait  a  minnit." 

"  But  you  must.  The  district  is  full  of  rebels.  Wedding- 
ton  and  his  band  are  here,  and  I  suppose  are  now  lying  out 
for  me  between  here  and  Louisa.  You  couldn't  go  a  rod 
while  there  is  a  rebel  in  this  part  of  Kentucky." 

"  But,  de  law,  Massa  John, —  de  law  !  Don't  you  say  de 
court  hab  gib  up  de  'junction  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  Weddington  would  care  nothing  for  that ;  he 
robs  and  murders  peaceable  white  people,  and  he  cares  no 
more  for  negroes.  You  must  stay  quietly  at  home,  and  say 
nothing  —  not  even  to  the  negroes  —  till  I  am  ready.  When 
I  am,  I  will  come  and  see  you  safely  into  Ohio." 

"  But  whar  is  ye  a  gwine  to-night,  John  ? "  asked  his 
mother. 

"  To  the  Union  head-quarters  at  Louisa." 

''  0  John,  inter  danger !  What  should  I  do  if  3^ou,  too, 
was  took  from  me  ?  " 

'^  I  may  be  going  into  danger,  mother,  but  I  shall  be  safe. 
God  will  be  with  me,  for  I  go  about  his  work.  I  can't  die 
till  it  is  done,  and  these  incarnate  devils  are  driven  from  Ken- 
tucky." 

'*  God  will  be  with  you ! "  exclaimed  Eachel,  her  eyes 
beaming  with  inexpressible  tenderness.  "  He  is  with  you ; 
or  you  never  would  have  escaped  from  that  dreadful  prison." 

"  You  are  right,  Rachel ;  and  then  he  made  an  enemy 
serve    me.     If  he    can  do  that,  he-  can  keep  me  safe,  and 


''THE     B  K  G  I  N  N  I  N  G     OF     THE     END."  165 

80  incliue  the  heart  of  the  Union  general  that  I  shall  suc- 
ceed in  what  I  am  going  about/'' 

"  An  enemy,  John  !    Who  was  he  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  certain,  and  if  I  was  it  would  not  do  to  mention 
his  name.  All  I  know  is  that  the  turnkey  came  to  my  cell 
about  midnight,  unlocked  my  chains,  and  led  me  into  the 
Confederate  camp,  where  a  man  met  us  with  the  mare  and 
another  nag  ready  saddled.  The  turnkey  had  the  counter- 
sign, and,  after  going  all  about  the  camp,  we  came  away  to- 
gether. After  we  left  the  lines  he  told  me  he  was  paid  for 
what  he  did,  and  that  it  would  cost  him  his  neck  if  he  was 
found  in  Kentucky.  He  didn't  know  who  hired  him,  nor 
even  the  name  of  the  man  who  paid  him  the  money.  It  was 
some  considerable  sum,  and  I  can  think  of  no  one  who  would 
have  paid  it,  but  an  officer,  w^ho,  before  my  trial,  spoke  to  me 
very  courteously." 

"  But  why  did  you  go  about  the  camp,  John  ?  Wasn't 
that  useless  danger  ?  " 

"No,  Rachel;  for  then  came  to  me  my  real  work  in  the 
war.     But  my  time  is  short.     I  must  soon  be  going." 

He  drew  ftom  his  breast-pocket  a  large  wallet,  and,  after 
taking  from  it  some  folded  papers,  handed  it  to  his  mother, 
saying,  — 

"  There,  mother ;  I  took  that  from  father's  drawer.  It  is 
yours,  —  ten  Kentucky  bonds.  They  wiU  make  your  old  age 
comfortable.  These,  'Zekiel,"  handing  the  other  papers  to 
the  negro,  "  are  for  you  and  Rachel.  They  are  what  came 
to  me  from  your  dead  master." 

The  negro   took   the   papers,   and    said,  with  a  ludicrous 


166  ON     THE     BORDER. 

grimace,  which  he  meant  should  hide  his  really  deep  emo- 
tion, — 

"  'Zekiel  keep  'um  along  ob  de  ress,  Massa  John,  and  dat 
he  totes  'bout  under  his  does,  allers ;  and  nobody'd  eber  tink 
ob  looking  dar  for  money,  —  leastways,  not  fur  a  t'ousand  dol- 
lars. 'Zekiel  keep  'um  fur  you,  Massa  John,  ag'in  the  war  am 
ober,  and  we'm  all  fixed  in  de  'Hio,  —  dat  free  kentry." 

"  Well,  any  way  you  like,  only  keep  them  safely  ;  and  re- 
member your  promise  about  father  and  Robin." 

"  Yas,  yas,  Massa  John,  'Zeke'll  do  dat." 

"Now  I  must  go,"  said  Jordan,  rising.  The  others  also 
rose,  and  taking  Rachel  by  one  hand,  and  his  mother  by  the 
other,  Jordan  said,  — 

"  Good-by  to  both  of  you.  Keep  up  good  heart,  for  in  less 
than  thirty  days  I  shall  be  back,  and  then  "  — 

He  paused  suddenly,  for  the  tread  of  a  horse  sounded  out- 
side, and  in  a  moment  a  loud  knock  came  at  the  door-way. 


CHAPTER   X 


THE   HUSBAND    AND    WIFE     TOGETHER. 


^HE  four  looked  at  one  another  in  silence,  then  Jordan 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  Rachel,  ask  who  it  is ;  but  don't  open  the  door." 
"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  asked,  raising  her  voice  so 


as  to  be  heard  above  the  wind,  which  now  was  moaning 
loudly  among  the  trees. 

"  Me,  —  Bradley  —  Bradley  Brown,"  was  the  answer. 

Rachel  turned  to  Jordan,  with  a  surprised  and  questioning 
look,  but  said  nothing.  He  shook  his  head,  as  he  answered, 
in  the  same  low  tone  as  before,  — 

"  I  fear  it  is  a  trap,  Rachel.  He  has  been  for  months  with 
the  rebel  army ;  I  heard  so  at  Piketon.  They  may  have 
sent  him  here  to  track  me." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  said,  her  face  turning  to  a 
deathly  pallor. 

Jordan  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  for  a  moment,  then 
he  said,  quickly,  — 

*'  I  have  it.     Ask  him  if  he  is  alone  ?  " 

"  Is  any  one  with  you  ?  "  said  Rachel,  going  close  to  the 
door-way. 

"  No.     It'r  only  me  —  Bradley  ;  and,  Rachel,  don't  ye  shut 

(167) 


168  ON     THE     BORDER. 

me  out,  don't  ye,  if  I  has  been  a"  villun.  I  mean  to  be  a 
decent  man  in  futur' ;  and  I'se  comed  back  with  a  pocket  full 
of  money.  Ye  shall  ride  in  yer  kerridge,  and  be  a  lady 
ag'in." 

"It'll  be  all  right,"  said  Jordan,  in  the  same  low,  quick 
tone.  "  Tell  him  you'll  open  the  door  in  a  moment.  Then 
pour  the  kettle  upon  the  backlog,  to  make  the  room  a  little 
darker.  'Zekiel  and  I  will  go  into  the  loft.  I  will  keep  him 
only  a  few  minutes.  Don't  be  afraid.  It  wiU  all  be  right. 
Come,  'Zekiel.'^ 

As  E-achel  answered  her  husband,  Jordan  and  the  negro 
went  quickly  up  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  attic.  Rachel 
then  partly  extinguished  the  already  smouldering  fire,  and 
a  moment  afterward  the  fugitive  husband  and  the  deserted 
wife  stood  face  to  face  together. 

Brown  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  saying,  — "  Rachel,  how 
d'ye  do  ?  " 

"Very  well,"  answered  Rachel,  her  voice  trembling 
slightly,  and  the  hand  she  held  out  as  rigid  and  cold  as  an 
icicle. 

Brown  noticed  her  agitation,  and  said,  quickly,  — 

"  Don't  ye  be  afeard,  Rachel.  I'se  come  onto  ye  sudden ; 
but  I'se  come  for  good.  I  mean  to  be  a  decent  man  in 
futur'." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Rachel.     "  Are  you  well  ?  " 

"  Yas, —  never  better."  The  dim  light  of  the  smouldering 
logs  revealed  only  the  outline  of  his  features  ;  but  his  full 
face,  and  stout,  burly  form  plainly  indicated  that  he  spoke  the 
truth.  "But,  Rachel,"  he  added,  "  ye's  very  cold  to  me. 
I'se  been  a  sorry  feller ;  but  wont  ye  forgive  me  ?  " 


THE  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  TOGETHER.   169 

"  Yes ;  if  I  have  anything  to  forgive ;  but  I  don't  know 
that  you  have  done  me  any  wrong," 

"  I  haint  meant  to,  but  some  o'  the  time  I'se  been  in  bad 
ways,  and  I  couldn't  come  back  till  I  had  money  ;  for,  Rachel, 
ye  knows,  ye  allers  counted  on  that." 

"  I  do  not  now.  I  have  no  need  of  money.  ^Zekiel  and  I 
earn  what  little  we  want." 

"  I  know  ye  does ;  ye's  a  brave  gal.  I'se  yered  all  about 
ye  to  the  camp  from  sum  of  the  neighbors.  But,  Rachel,  I'm 
in  great  business  ;  I  kin  keep  you  loike  a  lady  ag'in,  and  — 
ye'll  take  me  back,  and  be  my  wife  ag'in,  wont  ye  ?  " 

All  this  while  they  had  stood  by  the  door-way.  Brown  un- 
conscious of  the  presence  of  a  third  person ;  but  now  Rachel, 
stepping  aside  a  few  paces,  said,  — 

"  "We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter.  You  have  not  yet  spoken 
to  Mrs.  Jordan." 

The  elder  woman  had  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  chimney, 
her  hand  behind  her  ear,  and  her  head  bent  forward,  eagerly 
weighing  every  word  and  gesture  of  Brown,  to  catch  some 
token  of  the  real  motive  of  his  visit.  Now  she  said,  in  a 
kindly  tone,  as  if  assured  that  he  had  no  covert  purpose,  — 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Brown  ?     I'm  glad  to  see  ye." 

"  I'se  glad  to  see  ye.  Mistress  Jordan,"  said  Brown,  ad- 
vancing to  the  hearth,  and  taking  her  hand  warmly. 

"  'Sense  my  not  gettin'  up,"  said  the  widow.  "  I'm  not 
very  strong." 

"  It  can't  be  expected  ye'd  be,"  said  Brown.  "  It'r  a  ter- 
rible blow  yese  had.  Mistress  Jordan.  I'se  yered  all  about  it. 
But  ye  bear  it  bravely ;  and  yer  son  John,  how  do  he  stand 
up  under  it  ?  " 


170  ON    THE     BORDER. 

Ji 

"Like  a  man.  John  knows  the  Lord  does  all  things 
well." 

"  And  whar  ar'  he  now  ?  They's  scourin'  heaven  and 
yerth  to  find  him.  They's  offered  a  thousand  dollars  to  the 
man  as  brings  him  in  dead  or  alive." 

The  widow  gave  him  a  quick,  suspicious  glance,  and  an- 
swered coldly,  — 

"  He's  safe ;  the  rebels  will  not  catch  him." 

Just  then  a  heavy  step  was  heard  overhead,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  old  negro  came  down  from  the  attic.  As  his  huge 
frame  revealed  itself  upon  the  ladder.  Brown  looked  up,  and 
said,  cordially,  — 

"  Upon  my  word,  thar's  'Zeke  !  How  d'ye,  old  boy  ?  A 
little  frosty  at  top ;  but  as  warm  underneath  as  ever,  I'll 
warrant." 

"  Egzac'ly,  Massa  Brown,"  answered  the  old  man,  taking 
the  other's  extended  hand.  "  'Zeke  am  a  little  frosty  at  de 
top  ;  but  all  his  friends  knows  he'm  a  warm  heart,  if  his  head 
am  cohered  all  ober  wid  de  snow  ob  nigh  onto  eight}^  winters. 
When  did  you  leab  Piketon,  Massa  Brown  ?  " 

Brown  gave  a  sudden  start,  but  answered  good-humor- 
edly,  — 

"  How  did  you  know  I'd  been  to  Piketon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  'Zeke  yered  it  from  a  friend  as  said  you'd  been  dar  fur 
months,  doin'  a  mighty  stroke  of  business  as  —  what  am  de 
big  name  ?  —  commissy,  or  suffin'  loike  dat,  for  de  brute  crit- 
ters ob  de  rebel  army." 

"  It'r  true,  'Zeke,"  said  Brown,  with  a  glowing  face,  "  and 
I'se  made  a  pile  at  it ;  it'r  better'n  follerin'  the  river." 

"  So  Zeke  yeres,"  answered  the  old  man,  with  a  sarcastic 


THE     H  U  S  U  A  NM)     AND     W  I  F  K     TOGETHER.       171 

grin,  "  a  sight  better.  But  Massa  Brown,  you  wont  mind  if 
'Zeke  jess  bars  j'ou  in  ;  dese  am  ticklish  times,  and  we  don't 
sleep  no  more  wid  de  latch-string  out." 

"  Oh,  no !  Bar  the  door  if  ye  loike ;  but  I'm  armed,  — 
you  needn't  hev  no  fear." 

"  We  haint  afeard,  massa,"  said  the  old  man,  coming  to  the 
fire  after  fastening  the  door,  "  fur  'Zeke  keeps  loaded.  And 
p'raps  'twont  'sturb  ye  if  he  sots  down  yere  in  de  corner,  and 
primes  up  his  'volver.  It'm  darker  dan  a  pocket  up  dar  in  de 
loft." 

Brown  moved  away  bis  chair,  and  the  old  man  sat  down 
and  drew  the  revolver  from  his  belt.  As  he  did  so,  Rachel 
exclaimed,  — 

"  Why,  'Zekiel !  where  did  you  get  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  'Zeke  got  it,  missy,  —  got  it  honest ;  he  neber  steals. 
Haint  it  riofht  han'some,  Massa  Brown?"  and  he  held  the 
weapon  close  to  the  flickering  flame. 

Brown  bent  over  to  more  closely  examine  the  weapon,  and 
then  suddenly  grasping  it,  exclaimed,  — 

"Why,  'Zeke,  I  know  that  pistol !  It'r  Captain  Hart's,  of 
the  Third  Kaintucky.  Thar's  his  name  on  the  stock.  I'se 
been  onto  many  a  scout  with  him." 

"Wall,  'Zekiel  owns  it  now,"  said  the  old  man,  coolly  tak- 
ing the  pistol  from  the  other's  hand,  "  and  he  reckons  Cap'n 
Hart  wont  use  it  no  more  ag'in  honest  folks ;  for,  Massa 
Brown,  dat  rebel  hab  gone  to  kingdom  come,  —  sent  dar  wid 
his  own  'volver  !  " 

"  Dead !  Hart  dead  ?  I'se  sorry,"  exclaimed  Brown.  '^  He 
war  a  clever  feller,  —  one  uv  the  cunnel's  staff.  I  owe  him 
for  a  good  turn,  and  —  he's  dead !  " 


172  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"What  pistol  is  that?  How  did  you  come  by  it?"  asked 
Rachel,  quickly. 

"  I  cornfiscated  it,  missy.  Dis  am  de  Volver  dat  de  pore 
chile  sole  his  life  wid,  —  fur  two  sorry  rebels,  and  a  shot  at 
de  ole  debil,  Cecil." 

The  widow  sank  suddenly  down  upon  the  settle,  and  would 
have  fallen  to  the  floor  but  for  Rachel.  Springing  forward 
she  caught  her  in  her  arms,  saying,  — 

"  Put  it  away,  'Zekiel.  Come,  ma'am,  take  a  little  more 
of  the  brandy." 

"  No,  Rachel,  no  more.  Only  let  me  get  to  the  bed.  I 
would  lie  down  now." 

She  rose  feebly  to  her  feet,  and  staggered  a  step  or  two  for- 
ward. Rachel  caught  her,  and,  putting  her  arm  about  her, 
said,  — 

"Lean  on  me,  mother.  You  will  let  me  call  you  mother 
now,  —  I  will  be  a  daughter  to  you." 

"  Oh,  yes !  and  you's  a  good  chile.  I  never  knowed  what 
you  was  afore  to-day." 

Reaching  the  bed,  she  lay  down  upon  the  outside,  and  then 
drawing  Rachel's  face  close  to  hers,  said,  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"  Oh  !  will  he  ever  get  away  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother !  don't  be  alarmed.  He's  given  'Zekiel 
his  lesson,  —  that's  the  reason  he  acts  so  strangely." 

Meanwhile  the  old  black,  giving  no  apparent  heed  to  the 
two  women,  had  been  rapidly  loading  the  revolver.  "When  it 
was  done,  he  tapped  it  lovingly  on  the  hilt,  and  said  to  Brown, 
with  a  significant  look,  — 

"  'Zeke  hab  christened  dis  de  '  rebel-killer ; '  dar's  no  tellin', 
—  it  mouocht  do  some  mo'  ob  de  wuck  it  was  born  to." 


THE     II  U  S  H  A  N  D     A  NM)     WIIK     T  O  G  K  T  II  E  K  .       173 

"  Ye  don't  seem  to  loike  the  Secesh,  'Zeke,"  said  Brown, 
lauffliinj^. 

'•  Wall,  I  don't,  Massa  Brown.  I  neber  loiked  no  one  as 
don't  know  de  ditf 'rence  between  dar  own  and  oder  folks'  plun- 
der." Rising,  then,  he  turned  toward  the  ladder,  saying, 
"  Good-night,  Massa  Brown,  'Zeke  muss  go  to  bed.  But  bress 
his  soul,  he'd  loike  to  hab  forgot  his  pipe,  —  he  couldn't 
sleep  widout  dat,  nohow.  Ye  see,  massa,  'Zeke  hab  growd 
stravagant  in  his  ole  age.  He'm  tuck  to  both  'backer  and 
brandy.'^ 

Brown  expressed  the  opinion  that  a  moderate  use  of  those 
articles  is  not  hurtful  to  a  good  constitution,  and  then  Ezekiel, 
taking  a  smouldering  coal  from  the  hearth,  bore  it  away  up 
the  ladder,  —  to  light  his  pipe  in  the  attic. 

When  he  had  gone,  Rachel  came  to  the  fire,  and,  seating 
herself  on  the  settle,  said  quickly,  as  if  to  direct  the  conver- 
sation away  from  an  unpleasant  subject,  — 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  while,  Bradley  ?  Why 
have  I  never  heard  from  you  ?  " 

"  Wall,  the  truth  ar',  Rachel,  I  darn't  come  back  till  I'd 
some  money.  Ye  knows  ye  allers  sot  high  on  that,"  said 
Brown,  demurely. 

"  I  know,  —  too  high,"  answered  Rachel,  a  little  impatient- 
ly.    "  But  why  didn't  you  write  to  me  ?  " 

Brown  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  looking  up  with  a  frank 
expression  on  his  ruddy  features,  he  said,  — 

^*  Well,  Rachel,  I'll  tell  ye  all,  no  matter  what  ye  think  uv 
me.  Ye  see,  arter  I  goed  away,  I  thought  the  Avhole  thing 
over,  and  it  troubled  me  so  bad,  that  to  drown  it,  I  tuck  to 

15* 


174  ON     T  H  K     li  O  R  D  E  K  . 

drinkin'  loike  a  fish,  and  for  long,  jest  laid  round,  not  fit  fur 
nothin'." 

"  But  you  bore  uj)  well  at  the  time  ;  why  did  it  trouble  you 
so  afterward  ?  " 

"  'Case  I  warn't  nigh  ye.  When  I  was,  I  could  be  a  man, 
for,  somehow,  a  look  at  ye  guv  me  courage  ;  but  when  you 
was  clar  out  o'  sight,  the  whole  thing  came  onto  me,  —  how 
I'd  stood  atween  ye  and  some  better  man  ;  how  by  fraud  I'd 
got  ye  to  be  my  wife,  when,  if  I  hadn't,  3^e  mought,  at  tliat 
minute,  hev  been  as  well  off  and  happy  as  ary  woman  in 
Kaintucky." 

"  By  fraud  ?  "  said  Rachel,  quietly,  and  without  looking  up 
from  the  hearth. 

"  Yes,  Rachel,  by  fraud.  I  didn't  do  it  myself,  but  Wed- 
dington  did ;  and  when  I'd  every  reason  to  think  he'd  got 
lies  into  yer  ears,  I  warn't  man  enough  to  tell  ye  the  truth. 
It  warn't  the  loss  o'the  money,  fur  that  I  could  make  ag'in  ; 
but  it  war  the  conscience  uv  that  thing  as  come  onto  me  in 
so  terrible  a  way  that  it  tuck  the  manhood  right  out  o'  me, 
and  made  me  sink  down  jest  good  for  nothin'." 

Rachel's  eyes  were  still  bent  upon  the  fire,  but  neither  sur- 
prise nor  displeasure  was  in  her  voice  as  she  said,  — 

"  I  have  thought  this,  Bradley.  But  why  does  the  young 
'Squire  pursue  me  with  such  a  bad,  vindictive  purpose  ?  " 

"  'Case  ye  didn't  consent  to  him  when  he  axed  ye,  —  yer 
dead  father  in  the  house."  Here  a  slight  shudder  came  over 
the  stout  frame  of  the  man,  and  a  deeper  glow  settled  on  his 
features.  "  It'r  his  natur' ;  he  never  guvs  up  arything  he's 
sot  his  heart  on,  and  never  forgives  ary  man  or  woman  as 
comes  atween  him  and  his  hellish  doino^s.    I  orter  hev  know'd 


T  11  K     11  r  S  li  A  X  D     AN  L»      W  I  F  E     T  ( >  (>  E  T  II  K  U  .       liU 

this  long  ago ;  but  I  was  a  fool^  and  sense  then  I've  been 
worse  nor  a  fool,  or  I  wouldn't  hev  staid  away,  and  left  ye  to 
his  nu'rc3^  I've  yored  it  all,  Eachel,  — how  yer  mother  shot 
at  him,  and  how  the  shock  and  'citement  killed  her." 

Rachel  said  nothing  for  some  moments,  then  she  looked  up 
and  spoke  in  a  quiet,  pleasant  way,  — 

"  Well,  Bradley,  let  it  rest.  We  will  say  no  more  about 
it.'' 

''As  ye  loike,  Rachel  ;  but  I  shall  do  suthin'.  AVhen  he 
and  I  come  together  he  ar'  a  dead  man,  if  it  ar'  in  the  tent  of 
Gunnel  Williams  hisself  *' 

"  No,  BratUey,"  she  said,  quietly  but  firmly,  "  I  shall  not 
allow  it ;  your  own  conduct  gives  you  no  right  to  call  him  to 
account  for  his  ;  and  I  would  leave  him  to  God." 

The  man  turned  his  face  fully  to  hers,  and  a  look  of  pain 
was  on  his  features  as  he  answered,  — 

"  Then  ye  don't  forgive  me,  Rachel  ?  I  thought  ye  said  ye 
did." 

"I  do,  fidly  and  freely, —  if  I  have  anything  to  forgive; 
but  I  have  not, —  you  have  not  meant  to  ^Tong  me.  God 
has  used  you  only  as  an  instrument  to  open  my  eyes, —  to 
bring  me  to  my  true  senses." 

"  Wrong  ye,  Rachel !  I  hev,  but  I  hevn't  meant  to,  —  I 
hevn't  been  myself;  if  I  had,  I'd  not  hev  left  ye  for  a 
hour," 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would  ;  but  say  no  more  about  it. 
What  induced  you  to  join  the  rebels  ?  " 

"Wall,  ye  see,  whoile  I  was  a-layin'  round  Cincinnati, 
Captain  Hart  —  him  as  the  pore  boy  killed  —  was  a  runnin' 
a  boat  to  Memphis,  an<l  he  come  onto  me,  —  I'd  knowed  him 


176  ox     THE     BORDER. 

afore  on  the  Sandy,  —  and  got  me  to  go  with  him  as  second 
mate  on  the  steamer.  He  treated  me  right  well,  though  I 
was  drunk  half  the  time,  and  so,  when  the  war  broke  out,  and 
he  jined  the  army,  I  went  along  with  him  to  Piketon.  Thar 
he  got  onto  Gunnel  Williams'  staff,  and  fixed  me  into  the 
berth  of  commissary,  —  to  go  round  and  get  up  the  critters 
for  the  camp.  I've  been  at  it  nigh  onto  four  months,  and 
made  a  pile,  Kachel.  Here  it  ar',"  —  and  he  drew  from  a  side- 
pocket  a  well-filled  bag,  and  laid  it  on  the  settle, — ''  all  in  half- 
eagles, —  and,  Eachel,  thar's  enough  thar  to  set  ye  up  ag'in  as 
a  lady." 

Rachel  turned  musingly  toward  the  fire,  but  made  no  reply. 
In  a  moment  a  heavy  step  was  again  heard  overheard,  and 
soon  a  tall,  uncouth  form  and  black  face  came  down  the  stair- 
way. 

"  Lor'  bress  me,"  said  the  new-comer,  "  'Zeke  am  a-gittin' 
to  be  a  ole  fool,  —  gwine  to  bed  and  neber  once  tinkin'  dat 
de  pore  old  mule  haint  had  his  fodder." 

"  Speak  IcAver,  'Zekiel,"  said  Rachel,  turning  round  and 
looking  toward  the  bed  in  the  corner ;  "  you  may  wake  Mrs. 
Jordan  ;   I  reckon  she  is  asleep.'^ 

"  No,  I'm  not  asleep,"  said  a  voice  from  the  bed ;  "  'Zekiel'U 
not  'sturb  me." 

"  Not  asleep  yit,  missus  ! "  exclaimed  the  black  man,  going 
towards  the  bed.  "  Yous  orter  be,  or  dis  trouble  will  a-wear 
you  out.  Hab  some  tea,  missus,  —  dat'U  shot  you'  eyes  in 
a  jiffin  ;  and  de  kittle  am  a  boilin'  hot  ober  de  fire." 

A  smothered  scream  was  the  only  answer  from  the  woman, 
and,  turning  quickly  round,  the  two  by  the  hearth  saw  the 
black  bending  over  her,  his  face  against  hers  and  her  arms 


r  II  K    n  i:  s  u  A  N  i>    A  N  I)    w  I  r  e   t  o  g  k  t  ii  e  k  .     177 

about  his  neck  iii  a  close,  convulsive  embrace.  Springing 
to  her  feet,  Rachel  hurried  to  the  bedside. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  cried.  "  What  is  the  matter, 
mother  ?  " 

The  woman  made  no  reply  ;  but,  turning  her  face  away, 
sobbed  hysterically.     The  black  said,  earnestly,  — 

"  Get  de  lod'num,  missy,  quick !  it'm  de  old  stitch  de 
missus  use  to  hab  in  her  side,  and  we  muss  git  her  ober  it 
right  off." 

Rachel  went  to  the  cupboard,  and  in  a  moment  came  again 
to  the  bedside,  with  a  broken  glass  and  a  small  vial  of  lauda- 
num. Pouring  some  of  the  opiate  into  the  glass,  the  black 
man  held  it  to  the  lips  of  the  sick  woman,  and  then,  with  his 
great,  bony  hand  gently  stroked  her  forehead. 

"  Neber  fear,  missus,"  he  said,  in  a  soft,  musical  voice  ;  "  it'll 
all  come  right.  The  Lord  is  in  heaven,  —  he  ruleth  over  all. 
John  will  come  back.  His  time  is  not  yet;  and  when  he 
goes,  it  will  only  be  to  meet  his  father  and  his  ancestors.  He 
will  die  worthy  of  them."  Then  his  voice  sank,  and  his  tone 
changed,  as  if  he  suddenly  remembered  that  others  were 
within  hearing.  "  Massa  John'll  come  back,  shore,  missus  ; 
and  Missy  Rachel'll  tend  j^ou  till  den ;  she  will,  for  'Zeke 
knows  she  lubs  you  loike  she  was  you'  own  chile." 

"  I  do,"  said  Rachel,  pressing  the  hand  of  the  widow.  "  I 
will  be  a  daughter  to  you  ;  you  shall  never  know  a  want  or  a 
sorrow,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  Ye'r  a  good  chile,"  said  the  widow,  with  returning  com- 
posure ;  "  kiss  me,  dear.  And  ye,  'Zekiel,  kiss  me  'fore  ye  go. 
I  shan't  see  ye  a'g'in  to-night,  for  the  lod'num  will  put  me  to 
sleep  in  a  minnit." 


178  ON     THE     BORDER. 

The  black  man  bent  down  and  pressed  his  lips  to  tliose 
of  the  woman  ;  then  saying,  "  Good-night !  good-night !  "  he 
turned  away,  and,  with  a  swaying,  uncertain  step,  went  out 
into  the  storm,  which  now  was  raging  furiously  around  the 
lonel}^  cabin. 

For  long  after  he  went,  Rachel  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
holding  the  hand  of  the  sick  woman,  and  every  now  and  then 
looking  toward  the  door-way,  as  if  wondering  at  his  prolonged 
absence.  But  at  last  she  rose,  and  going  forward  to  the  fire, 
said  to  Brown,  — 

"  She  is  asleep ;  but  what  can  keep  'Zekiel  so  long  at  the 
barn  ?     He's  been  gone  half  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  it'r  nothin' ;  the  ole  feller  allers  was  slower'n  tar  in 
January,"  answered  her  husband.  "  He'll  be  back  soon. 
But  sot  down,  Rachel.  Now  she's  asleep  I  want  to  talk  to 
ye.  I  want  to  git  out  o'  this  suspense.  Ye's  kind  to  me, 
Rachel ;  but  ye's  cold,  —  colder'n  an  icicle.  Don't  ye  mean 
to  tuck  me  back  ?  Wont  ye  be  my  wife  ag'in,  now  when  I'se 
come  to  ye  with  a  pile  o'  money,  —  a  pile,  —  every  dollar  as 
I've  made,  'cept  a  few  hundred  that  I  had  to  spend  t'other 
da}',  to  luck  myself  in  the  face.  Tell  me,  Rachel,  wont  ye 
tuck  me  back  ?  "  and  the  man's  eyes  met  hers  with  a  plead- 
ing, almost  agonized,  look,  that  had  in  it  the  depth  of  pathos ; 
for  nothing  is  more  pathetic  than  the  sight  of  a  strong 
man,  under  the  pressure  of  some  great  yearning  of  the  soul, 
going  back  to  the  simple  humbleness  of  childhood.  His 
emotion  affected  Rachel ;  for  she  turned  her  face  away,  and 
said  nothing  for  some  moments. 

"  Tell  me,  Rachel,"  he  said  again,  '^  wont  ye  tuck  me 
back  ?  " 


THE  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE  TOGETHER.   179 

"  I  fet'l  kindly  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  gentle  voice, 
"very  kindly ;  but  I  can  never  be  your  wife  again." 

''Why  not?"  he  said,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  standing 
before  her.  "  Ye  don't  mean  ye's  married  ag'in !  I  haint 
heard  o'  that." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  quietly ;  "  I  am  not  married  again. 
I  do  not  intend  to  be  married  again ;  but  there  are  reasons 
why  I  never  can  be  your  wife.  Sit  down  quietly,  and  I  will 
talk  to  you." 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  over  against  the  settle,  and  she 
went  on. 

'-  When  I  married  you,  Bradley,  I  was  a  weak,  silly  girl ; 
now  I  am  a  woman.  I  knew  then  that  I  did  not  love  you  as 
I  should  to  be  3'our  wife  ;  but  mother  said  the  love  would 
come,  and  I  hoped  it  would  ;  but  it  did  not,  and  now  I  know 
the  reason." 

"  What  war  the  reason  ?  "  asked  Brown,  anxiously. 

"No  matter.  It  would  do  you  no  good  to  know,  and  might 
do  you  harm.  It  is  enough,  Bradley,  that  I  do  not  love  you  ; 
and  with  the  notions  that  I  now  have  of  marriage,  I  should 
not  respect  myself,  —  I  should  be  sinning  against  my  owti  con- 
science, —  if  I  became  again  your  wife.  I  feel  very  friendly 
to  you.  I  do  not  forget  how  kind  you  always  were  to  me ; 
how  patiently  you  bore  with  all  my  follies  and  extravagances, 
and  that  shuts  my  eyes  to  the  low  trick  by  which  you  made 
me  marry  you  ;  but,  —  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  The  sin 
and  folly  are  both  past,  and  nothing  —  nothing  —  will  in- 
duce me  to  repeat  them." 

Brown  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and,  for  a  time,  mad  ' 


'    180  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  E  n  . 

no  reply.     At  last  he  looked  up,  and,  in  a  voice  so  soft  and 
gentle  that  it  seemed  scarcely  his  own,  said,  — 

"  I  wont  urge  ye  ag'in  yer  will,  Rachel.  I  love  ye  too  well 
for  that.  Ye'r  the  only  thing  I  ever  did  love,  and  if  ye'd  now 
only  love  me  a  little,  I  mought  be  a  better  man.  But  I  know 
I  haint  worthy  uv  ye  ;  and  I  deserve  this  ;  yit  it  comes  hard, 
hard/'  and  again  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  his 
frame  shook  with  a  strong  emotion. 

Neither  spoke  for  many  minutes,  then  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
^and  said,  with  a  forced  calmness,  — 

"  Wall,  I'll  go,  Rachel.  I  wont  be  in  yer  way.  Keep  the 
money.  It'll  keep  ye  and  'Zeke  till  I  kin  guv  ye  more. 
Think  kindl}'  uv  me,  Rachel.  I'se  been  a  sovry  feUer;  but  I 
haint  meant  to  wrong  ye." 

"But  you'll  not  go  such  a  night  as  this,"  she  said,  also 
rising.  "  It  is  storming  furiously,  and  is  near  upon  midnight. 
Stay  till  morning ;  you  can  sleep  in  the  lean-to." 

"  And  is  ye  willing  I  should  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  ye  will  keep  the  money  ;  ye'll  let  me  wuck  for  ye,  if 
I  aint  your  husband  ?  " 

"  No,  Bradley.  I  will  take  care  of  it  for  you,  if  you  like  ; 
it  may  be  safer  with  me  than  with  you,  till  you  get  over  this. 
But  I'll  not  use  it.  'Zekiel  and  I  can  take  care  of  ourselves. 
But  what  has  become  of  him  ?  Wont  you  go  to  the  barn  ? 
I  fear  something  has  happened  to  him." 

As  Brown  went  towards  the  door,  a  heavy  tread  sounded 
again  in  the  attic.  It  arrested  his  steps,  and  turning  suddenly, 
his  face  aglow,  and  his  eyes  blazing  with  angry  fire,  he  said 
to  Rachel,  — 


THE     H  U  S  R  A  N  D     AND     WIFE     TOGETHER.       181 

"  Ah  !  thetr's  it !  Ye  hev  another  man !  Thet's  why  ye 
wont  tuck  back  yer  husband!  I'll  hev  his  life,  if  he's  my 
own  brother ! "  Drawing  a  long  knife  he  started  fox  the 
garret. 

With  onQ  bound  Rachel  was  between  him  and  the  ladder, 
but,  seizing  her  by  the  arm,  he  was  thrusting  her  aside,  when 
he  was  suddenly  lifted  from  the  floor,  and  thrown  headlong  to 
the  centre  of  the  apartment.  Before  he  could  regain  his  feet, 
a  heavy  hand  was  at  his  throat,  and  an  angry  voice  cried 
out,  — 

"  You  low,  skulkin'  tief  and  villun  !  Does  you  dar  to  tetch 
my  missy  !  You'll  neber  do  it  ag'in,  you  rebel  devil ! "  and  the 
old  negro's  gi*asp  tightened  about  the  neck  of  the  prostrate 
man,  till  his  face  assumed  a  deeper  purple  than  was  habitual 
to  it. 

"  How  came  you  in  the  attic,  'Zekiel  ? "  cried  Rachel. 
"  Where  is  John  ?  " 

"  Gone,"  said  the  negro,  still  keeping  his  hand  on  the  neck 
of  Brown.     "  Gone  out  to  fodder  de  mule  !     He  !  he  ! " 

"  Let  Bradley  up,  then.  Let  him  up,  I  say ! "  she  re- 
peated, as  the  old  man  showed  no  inclination  to  heed  her 
words.  Then  he  released  his  hold.  Brown  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  the  three  stood  face  to  face  with  one  another. 

Brown's  eyes  were  blazing  as  he  turned  upon  Rachel,  — 

"  So,  it's  Jordan,"  he  said,  —  "  Jordan,  as,  wam't  it  for  me, 
'udn't  be  livin'." 

"  For  you  I  "  exclaimed  Rachel.  "  Did  you  help  him  out  of 
the  jail  ?  " 

"  I  did.  But,  if  I'd  knowed  this,  I'd  let  him  hung,  if  he 
did  keep  ye  from  starvin'." 

16 


182  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  It  was  a  noble  act,  Bradley.  I  thank  you  for  it.  There 
is  nothing  wrong  between  John  and  me.  'Zekiel,  tell  your 
master  that  you  are  sorry  for  what  you  have  done." 

The  old  black  had  stood  speechless  with  amazement  at  this 
sudden  revelation ;  but  now  he  found  words  to  stammer 
out,  — 

"  'Zeke  am  sorry,  Massa  Brown.  He  'udn't  hab  laid  hands 
on  you  ef  he'd  knowed  dat,  —  nudder  'ud  you  on  Missy 
Eachel." 

"  Sit  down,  Bradley,"  said  Rachel,  with  more  warmth  of 
manner  than  she  had  shown  during  the  interview.  "  I  as- 
sure you  there  is  nothing  wrong  between  John  and  me." 

Brown  stood  for  a  moment,  as  if  but  half  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  his  wife's  words  j  then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he 
took  a  seat  in  the  chimney-corner,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  — 

"  I  b'lieve  ye,  Eachel ;  and  I'll  tell  ye  all  about  it,  so  ye'll 
b'lieve  me." 

"  Wait  a  minnit,  Massa  Brown,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  'Zeke 
wants  to  yere  dat,  and  he  muss  put  a  log  on  de  fire  fuss. 
You  sees,  massa,  — he!  he! — you  sees,  Massa  John  kept 
you  in  de  dark,  so  you  moightn't  see  de  shape  ob  his  nose  fru 
de  charcoal.  Didn't  he  do  ole  'Zeke  mazin'  well?  'Zeke 
could  ha'  said  on  his  Bible  dat  he  was  a  down  yere,  and  say- 
in'  all  dem  fine  words  to  Missy  Jordan.  Pore  ting  !  dat  gub 
her  dat  ar'  stick  in  de  side  so  sudden." 

While  the  old  man  was  delivering  himself  of  these  re- 
marks, he  raked  together  the  coals  on  the  hearth,  and  heaped 
upon  them  a  few  billets  of  light  wood.  The  juicy  pine,  blaz- 
ing up  quickly,  threw  a  broad  light  over  the  gloomy  room, 
and  then  Rachel  suddenly  exclaimed,  — 


THE     HUSBAND     AND     AVIFE     TOGETHER.       183 

"  Why,  'Zekiel,  have  you  got  on  John's  clothes  ?  " 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up,  and,  glancing  down  at  his 
extremities  with  a  look  of  comic  satisfaction,  said,  — 

"  Sartin,  missy !  'Zeke  and  Massa  John  make  a  trade. 
'Taint  de  fust  one  dey's  made,  and  you  knows  'Zeke  allers 
gits  de  best  end.  Don't  dey  fit  right  smart  ?  All  but  de 
legs,  and  dem  'Zeke  is  gwine  to  splice  out  wid  de  fust  haff- 
dollar  he  kin  come  by.  Dar  wont  no  rebs  come  round  yere 
now,  missy.  Deyil  run  at  de  berry  sight  ob  Massa  John's 
clo'es.     He  !  he  ! " 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  wear  them  ?  Put  on  your  Sunday 
suit,  and  lay  them  away  until  John  comes  again." 

"  Wall,  missy,  'Zeke  reckons  he  wont !  A  trade  am  a 
trade,  and  dis  was  a  fair  one,  dough  done  in  de  dark.  But, 
missy,"  and  his  voice  now  lost  its  tone  of  grotesque  humor, 
"'Zeke  reckons  dem  ragged  old  clo'es  of  his'll  serve  Massa 
John  a  good  turn  to-night.  Who  knows  but  dis  bery  minnit 
dey'm  fendin'  off  de  arrers  ob  de  Philistins  ?  " 

"P'raps  they  is,"  said  Brown,  who  had  listened  with  curi- 
ous interest  to  the$e  disclosures ;  "  the  kentry  ar'  full  uv 
Secesh,  lookin'  fur  him.  They  know  he'll  head  fur  the  Union 
camp,  and,  ten  to  one,  he'll  fall  in  with  some  on  'em.  But 
he'll  git  through ;  fur  he's  the  best  darky  uv  ary  white  man  I 
uver  know'd." 

The  conversatio-n  then  turned  upon  Jordan's  escape. from 
prison,  and  Brown  related  the  part  he  took  in  the  transaction, 
which,  not  to  weary  the  reader  with  a  long  repetition  of  Ken- 
tucky vernacular,  I  will  condense  into  a  few  sentences  of  ordi- 
nary English. 

Soon  after  the  trial  and  sentence  of  Jordan,  Brown  heard 


184  ox     THE     BORDER. 

of  the  relief  he  had  given  Rachel  in  her  extremity,  and  at 
once  determined  to  effect  his  release,  even  at  the  cost  of 
his  accumulations  in  the  rebel  service,  —  the  precious  gold 
with  which  he  lioped  to  buy  back  the  favor  of  his  deserted 
wife.  His  first  thought  was  to  bribe  Colonel  Williams,  and, 
with  this  object  in  view,  he  went  to  Captain  Hart,  who  has 
already  been  mentioned,  and,  stating  to  him  the  circum- 
stances, asked  him  to  approach  that  oflficer.  Hart  had  been 
present  at  the  interview  between  Jordan  and  Colonel  Wil- 
liams, and  sympathized  with  the  prisoner.  He  entered  heart- 
ily into  the  project  for  his  release  ;  but  explained  to  Brown 
that  the  rebel  commander  had  no  control  over  his  fate,  and 
could  not  be  bribed,  if  he  had. 

Hart  then  suggested  the  plan,  with  the  working  of  which 
the  reader  is  already  acquainted;  and  it  was  he,  aided  by 
his  orderly,  who  abstracted  the  horse  of  Jordan  from  the 
stable  of  his  commander,  —  the  animal  being  considered 
indispensable  to  Jordan's  successful  flight. 

Brown  did  not  see  Jordan  while  he  was  within  the  prison, 
but  spent  his  whole  time  there  in  undermining  the  principles 
of  the  turnke}^  The  reason  he  did  not  acquaint  Jordan  with 
his  visit  was,  that  he  did  not  know  him  well  enough  to  trust 
him  with  a  secret  on  which  his  own  life  depended. 

On  the  following  day  Hart  informed  Brown  of  the  intended 
departure  of  the  two  hundred  cavalry  in  pursuit  of  Jordan, 
and  Brown  at  once  suggested  Ihat  Hart  should  accompany  the 
squad,  to  thwart,  if  possible,  the  purposes  of  Cecil,  while  he 
himself  foHowed  on,  and,  through  his  wife,  or  the  old  negro, 
conveyed  warning  to  the  fugitive.  He  left  the  camp  only 
a  few  hours  after  the  cavalry,  but  lingered  at  Paintville  till 


THE     H  U  S  B  AND     A  N  D     W  I  F  E     TO  O  E  T  II  1.  R  .       185 

after  nightfall,  to  escape  observation  from  the  rebel  soliliers, 
who,  he  feared,  would  suspect  his  design,  if  they  saw  him 
in  the  neighborhood.  While  there,  he  learned  of  the  fearful 
tragedy  already  enacted  at  the  cabin  ;  but  not  of  the  sad  mis- 
chance by  which  the  younger  Jordan  had  taken  the  life  of 
lierhaps  the  only  man  among  the  two  hundred  who  would 
have  shown  his  hunted  brother  either  mercy  or  humanity. 

'When  he  finished  the  recital.  Brown  looked  up  at  Kachel, 
and  said,  a  moisture  gathering  in  his  eyes,  — 

"  Ye  b'lieve  this,  Rachel  ?  " 

"Yes,  Bradley.  I  think  you  would  not  tell  a  falsehood 
about  such  a  thing,  —  not  to  me." 

"  And  ye  don't  b'lieve  I'se  altogether  a  bad  man  ?  " 

"  No,  Bradle}^ ;  I  always  knew  you  to  be  capable  of  gen- 
erous, noble  impulses.  If  you  would  only  leave  drink 
alone  "  — 

"  I  has,  Eachel !  Sense  pore  Cap'n  Hart  tell'd  me  that 
was  the  way  to  make  ye  a  lady  ag'in,  I  haint  tetched  a  drop. 
And  so  ye  wont  throw  me  off?  Ye'U  alter  what  ye  has 
said?" 

"No,  Bradley,"  she  answered,  a  saddened  look  coming  upon 
her  features,  "I  can't  alter  it.  I  said  what  I  did,  not  on 
account  of  what  you  are,  or  what  you  have  done  ;  but  because 
—  I  was  not  meant  to  be  your  wife." 

He  rested  his  face  on  his  hand,  and  made  no  reply  for  some 
minutes ;  then  he  rose,  and  taking  up  his  hat  from  the  table, 
said  in  slow,  subdued  tones,  — 

"  Good-by,  Rachel.  If  ye's  ever  in  ary  trouble,  ye'll  send 
for  me  ?  " 

Rachel  also  rose  to  her  feet,  as  she  answered,  — 

16* 


186  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  E  li  . 

"But  you  are  not  going,  —  in  this  storm  and  after  mid- 
night !     Stay  at  least  till  morning." 

*^  No,  Rachel,  I'll  go.  I  don't  keer  now  fur  the  dark  or  the 
storm." 

"  But  you  say  the  rebels  are  lurking  about ;  you  may  fall 
in  with  some  of  them  ;  they  may  find  out  what  you  have 
done,  and  take  your  life  for  it." 

"  No  matter  if  they  does,  —  my  life  haint  worth  nothin'  now. 
Good-by,  Rachel." 

Then,  strange  to  say,  this  man,  who  loved  nothing  in  the 
world  but  that  woman  and  the  gold  which  lay  on  the  table, 
opened  the  door,  and  went  out  into  the  storm,  leaving  both 
behind  in  the  cabin. 


CHAPTER     XI. 


A    MIDNIGHT    RIDE. 


^;HE  night  was  dismally  dark,  and  the  rain  was  falling 
in  torrents,  when,  in  the  guise  of  the  old  negro,  Jor- 


dan emerged  from  the  cabin,  and,  with  rapid  steps, 
made  his  way  to  the  rude  log-barn  which  stood,  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  worm  fence,  in  the  centre  of  the  little 
clearing.  As  he  softly  lifted  the  heavy  w^ooden  latch,  a  low 
whinny,  followed  by  the  quick  pawing  of  steel-clad  hoofs, 
sounded  from  the  inside  of  the  barn,  as  if  to  welcome  his 
coming.  It  may  be  that,  with  the  acute  ear  of  her  species, 
the  mare  recognized  the  tread  of  her  master,  and  gave  vent 
to  these  expressions  in  token  of  satisfaction  at  the  prospect 
of  being  relieved  of  the  companionship  of  the  ancient  mule  that 
was  snoring  soundly  in  the  adjoining  stall.  Horses,  doubtless, 
regard  mules  very  much  as  the  negro  regards  that  other  hybrid, 
the  mulatto. 

"  Be  quiet.  Beauty !  be  quiet !  Not  a  word !  "  said  Jordan, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as  he  entered  the  barn,  and  softly  closed 
the  door  behind  him.  While  he  was  doing  this  the  animal 
backed  out  of  the  stall,  and,  stepping  as  if  she  were  treading 
on  eggs,  came  toward  her  master. 

"  We've  a  long  road  before  us,   Beauty ;    have   you   had 

(187) 


188  ON     THE     BORDER. 

enough  to  stand  it  till  morning  ?  "  whispered  the  man,  put- 
ting his  mouth  close  to  the  ear  of  the  mare.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  placing  it  gently  over  the  man's  shoulder,  embraced 
him  ;  but  gave  out  no  sound,  brute  or  human. 

"  The  night  is  dreadful  dark,  —  my  life  may  hang  on  your 
eyesight,  —  will  you  be  careful  ?  "  Another  and  warmer  em- 
brace was  the  answer. 

"  Well,  then,  let's  be  going ;  but  step  softly,  till  we're  out 
of  hearing." 

Then  the  man  undid  the  door,  and  with  the  horse  went  out 
into  the  darkness.  Closing  the  door  again,  he  turned  to  the 
animal  and  said,  again  in  a  whisper,  — 

"  Kow,  Beauty,  keep  your  eyes  open ;  you  shall  have  a 
bushel  of  oats  in  the  morning." 

Again  the  mare  answered,  —  this  time  by  rubbing  her  nose 
against  the  man's  features. 

"  Don't  do  that,  jou  fool !"  exclaimed  the  man;  "you'll  rub 
off  the  charcoal." 

The  mare  hung  down  her  head,  and  patting  her  on  the 
neck,  and  speaking  quickly,  as  if  fearful  of  having  wounded 
her  feelings,  Jordan  said,  — 

"  Never  mind  Beauty ;  it  don't  matter  ;  but  it  shows  your 
eyes  are  only  half  open  ;  open  them  wide  if  you  want  to  help 
me  save  Kentucky." 

Again  she  put  her  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  then,  as 
he  bounded  into  the  saddle,  she  walked  slowly  and  softly 
away  froin  the  clearing.  When  they  had  gone  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  the  man  resumed  the  conversation. 
Bending  down  over  the  saddle-bow,  he  said,  in  his  usual 
tones,  — 


A      MIDNIGUT      HIDE.  189 

"  Now,  Beauty,  eyes  and  ears  both  open,  but  give  them 
your  heels,  —  show  them  you  had  a  great-grandfather." 

The  mare  gave  a  low  whinny,  and  then  flew  forward  like 
the  wind,  —  or  like  the  lightning,  which  every  now  and  then 
lighted  up  the  desolate  higliway. 

To  account  for  the  readiness  with  which  the  mare  under- 
stood her  master,  it  is  not  necessary  to  suppose  that  she  was 
acquainted  with  the  English  language.  Any  one  who  had 
listened  to  the  whispered  colloquy  between  the  two  would 
have  observed  that  the  man  conveyed  his  meaning,  not  by  his 
words,  but  by  the  different  inflections  of  his  voice,  which, 
delicately  modulated,  could,  like  the  notes  of  a  cultivated 
singer,  express  ideas  without  the  aid  of  language.  The 
trained  ear  of  the  horse  understood  these  sounds,  and  this 
shows  her  wonderful  intelligence.  I  have  hesitated  about 
bringing  a  brute  creature  into  my  story,  —  romance-writers 
generally  do  hesitate  to  describe  exceptional  characters,  — 
and  I  do  so  only  in  justice  to  tliis  noble  animal,  that,  like 
her  master,  gave  her  life  for  Kentucky. 

Avoiding  the  direct  road  which  threads  the  valley  of  the 
Blaine,  and  which  he  concluded  would  be  guarded  by  the 
rebels,  Jordan  took  a  by-way  leading  eastwardly  toward  the 
Big  Sandy,  and  was  rapidly  approaching  the  little  hamlet  of 
George's  Creek,  when  the  mare  all  at  once  slackened  her 
pace,  and  soon  stopped  in  the  road  suddenly.  Leaning  for- 
ward, Jordan  said,  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  What  is  it.  Beauty  ?    What  do  you  see  ?  " 

The  mare  uttered  no  sound ;  but,  by  the  slackening  of  the 
reins,  the  man  knew  that  she  was  turning  her  face  toward 
him.     Dismounting,  and  leading  her  into  the  timber  which 


190  ON     THE     BORDER. 

skirted  the  road,  he  went  slowly  forward  along  the  edge  of 
the  highway,  cautiously  feeling  his  way  with  his  hands  before 
him.  He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  came  upon  an  obstruc- 
tion, —  a  stout  rope  stretched  across  the  highway.  The  storm 
was  still  raging  furiously,  and  the  night  was  still  pitchy  dark, 
—  so  dark  that  no  object  smaller  than  a  forest  could  be  dis- 
tinguished at  a  yard's  distance.  Sight,  therefore,  was  of  no 
avail ;  he  must  depend  on  his  hearing.  Stepping  softly  in 
among  the  trees,  he  slunk  behind  a  huge  oak,  and,  bending 
his  ear  to  the  ground,  held  his  breath  and  listened.  Soon  the 
impatient  pawing  of  a  horse  sounded  from  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  not  ten  rods  from  the  obstruction,  and  the  smothered 
voice  of  a  man  said,  — 

"Quiet!  quiet!  Devil!" 

Jordan  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  going  closer  to  the  road,  again 
posted  himself  behind  a  tree  and  listened.  Soon  a  vivid 
flash  of  lightning  lighted  up  the  narrow  by-way,  and  revealed 
the  figure  of  a  man  enveloped  in  a  large  cloak,  and  astride  of 
a  powerful  horse,  standing  a  little  way  within  the  timber. 
The  end  of  a  rifle-barrel  protruded  from  the  folds  of  his  cloak, 
and  this  and  the  obstruction  showed  that  he  was  lying  in 
wait  for  some  one  whose  coming  he  expected. 

All  this  Jordan  took  in  on  the  instant,  and,  stepping  boldly 
into  the  road,  he  accosted  the  horseman,  — 

"Why,  Lor'  bress  me,  Massa  Bent,  am  dis  you?  Out 
yere  dis  time  ob  night,  in  sich  a  storm  as  dis  ?  " 

The  horseman  started ;  but,  quickly  recovering  himself 
answered,  rather  abruptly,  — 

'•  Is  that  you,  'Zeke  ?  What  are  you  doing  here,  —  so  late, 
and  in  such  a  storm  ?  " 


A     MIDNIGHT     RIDE.  191 

"  Coniin'  from  meetin',  Massa  Bent,  and  we'se  had  a  high 
time,  —  a  high  time,  Massa  Bent ;  and 'Zeke  don't  mind  de 
rain  so  long  as  he  kin  git  nigh  de  Lord.  He  haint  nudder 
sugar  nor  salt ;  he  wont  melt." 

*•  No,  you  never  melt  except  you  git  nigh  de  Lord,"  re- 
sponded the  man  ;  "  but  I  do.  I'm  melting  now,  'Zeke.  All 
the  water  in  me  is  running  into  my  boots,  and  there'll  be 
nothing  left  of  me  if  I  have  to  stay  here  much  longer.  How 
much  water  does  John  say  there  is  in  a  man  ?  '^ 

"  Six  buckets  and  a  few  lumps  ob  sugar  for  sweetnin', 
Massa  Bent.  But  dar  haint  dat  much  in  you.  De  mos' 
ob  you  am  whiskey.  0  Massa  Bent,  you'm  a  sorry  man  to 
drink  so  much,  and  to  call  your  nag  arter  your  best  friend, 
de  debil!  Nobody  else  wud  do  sich  a  ting  as  dat.  'Zeke 
know'd  you  so  soon  as  you  spoke  de  name  ob  de  critter." 

"  Well,  go  home,  old  man  ;  you've  staid  here  long  enough. 
Your  noise  may  interfere  with  my  business." 

"  And  what  am  you'  business,  Massa  Bent,  yere  dis  time 
ob  night  ?  'Zeke  tort  you  was  away  wid  de  sodgers.  Hab 
de  Unions  comed  down  from  Louisa  ?  " 

"  No,  —  but  go  along,  old  man,  and  mind,  don't  you  tell  a 
soul  that  you've  seen  me  ;  if  you  do,  I'll  break  your  head  the 
next  chance  I  get." 

"  Oh,  neber  you  far,  Massa  Dick ;  'Zeke  knows  you  too 
well  fur  dat ;  jess  you  gib  him  a  chaw  ob  'backer,  and  he'll 
go." 

"  I  can't ;  both  my  hands  are  full ;  and  <  Devil '  is  as  restive 
as  Cain,  standing  here  in  the  storm." 

"  Jess  you  leff  'Zeke  holt  you'  gun,  Massa  Dick  —  den  you 
kin  git  into  you'  pocket  fur  de  'backer." 


1'j2  on    the   border. 

"  Well,  here  then,"  said  the  man,  handing  down  his  rifle ; 
"  but  keep  your  hand  over  the  trigger,  —  don't  let  the  cap 
get  wet." 

Jordan  took  the  weapon,  and,  placing  it  quickly  against  the 
man's  breast,  said,  in  his  usual  tones,  — 

"  Now,  Dick  Bent,  say  a  word,  or  make  a  movement,  and 
3'ou're  a  dead  man.  Tell  me  why  you  are  here,  —  away  from 
the  Union  army." 

"  Why,  how  is  this  ?  "  stammered  the  man.  "  Who  the 
devil  are  you  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know.  Tell  me  your  business  at  once  ;  but 
speak  low,  or  you'll  be  neither  water  nor  whiskey  in  another 
moment." 

"  Why,  bless  your  soul,  John,  is  it  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Bent, 
in  an  excited  tone,  but  still  heeding  the  warning  of  the  other. 
"  You  are  just  the  man  I  am  after.  I  heard  from  a  scout,  not 
tw^o  hours  before  day,  that  you  had  escaped  from  the  rebs.  I 
thought  you'd  know  all  about  them,  so  I  told  the  general,  and 
he  posted  a  dozen  of  us  off  at  sun-up  to  find  and  bring  you  in. 
We  had  to  come  by  a  bridle-way  over  the  mountain,  for  they 
hold  all  the  roads  between  here  and  head-quarters.  Cecil's 
squad,  and  Weddington's  gang,  are  both  out,  and  they'd  have 
had  you,  sure.  It  occurred  to  me  to  rope  up  all  the  roads  in 
their  rear,  and  stop  all  passers  till  daylight,  to  head  you 
off.  So  I've  got  you.  But  come,  we  mustn't  waste  time, — 
jump  up  behind  me,  and  let  us  travel." 

"  Which  way  would  you  go  ?  " 

"The  way  I  came,  —  up  the  valley  to  the  bridle-path  be- 
yond your  house,  and  then  over  the  mountain,  and  down  on 
the  other  side  till  abreast  of  Louisa.     The  coast  there  is  clear, 


A      M  I  1)  X  I  O  II  T     R  I  I>  K.  193 

or  it  was  this  morning.     But  where's  that  old  darky  ?     He 
wanted  some  tobacco." 

"  No,  tank  you,  Massa  Bent,"  said  Jordan,  laughing ; 
"  'backer  am  a  bad  ting,  —  a'most  as  bad  as  whiskey." 

"  The  devil,  John  !  Were  you  that  old  nigger  preaching 
to  me  about  drinking  whiskey  ?  Well,  it's  like  you  ;  you're 
always  preaching.  But  get  up  behind  me,  and  let's  be 
off." 

"  No,  Beauty  is  here,''  said  Jordan,  giving  a  low  whistle. 
It  was  answered  by  as  low  a  whinny,  and  in  a  moment  the 
mare,  leaping  the  rope,  was  beside  him.  Bounding  into  the 
saddle,  Jordan  said  to  his  companion,  — 

"  Take  away  the  barricade,  Dick ;  some  poor  fellow  might 
break  his  neck  over  it  before  morning.'' 

The  other  did  as  requested,  and  a  moment  afterward  the 
two  were  riding  rapidly  along  the  road  by  which  Jordan  had 
come  from  the  cabin. 

As  they  emerged  from  the  wood  which  girdles  the  rude 
dwelling,  and  came  in  sight  of  the  bright  light  which  shone 
from  its  windows,  Jordan  suddenly  halted  his  horse,  and  said, 
as  if  speaking  to  himself,  — 

"  He's  there  yet.  I  wonder  if  she'll  take  up  again  with 
the  wretched  creature." 

"  Who's  thar,  John  ?  "  asked  his  companion,  also  reining  up 
his  animal. 

"  Brown,  —  Rachel's  husband." 

"  The  devil  he  is !  Do  you  know  he's  joined  the  rebs,  and 
been  plundering  every  poor  widow  in  all  south-east  Ken- 
tucky. They  say  he's  robbed  both  sides,  and  made  a  pile  of 
money." 

17 


194  O  N     T  II  i:     li  O  R  I)  K  K  . 

"I  reckon  it's  so.  He  broiiglit  a  bag  of  gold  to  tlie 
cabin." 

"  He  did  !  Then  I'll  have  both  him  and  his  money,"  said 
Bent,  spurring  his  horse  forward. 

A  dozen  bounds  of  the  mare  brought  Jordan  to  the  side  of 
his  companion,  and,  seizing  his  bridle  with  a  force  that  threw 
"  Devil  "  back  upon  his  haunches,  he  said,  — 

"  What  would  j^ou  do,  Dick !  You'll  risk  everything  ;  we 
can't  afford  to  lose  a  moment !  " 

While  he  said  this,  the  door  opened,  and  a  man  emerged 
from  the  cabin.  In  another  moment  the  same  man,  mounted 
on  a  horse,  rode  rapidlj"  past  the  lighted  window. 

"  Back,  Dick  !     He'll  come  this  way  I     Into  the  timber  I  " 

The  other  said  not  a  word,  but  quietly  let  Jordan  lead 
his  horse  among  the  trees  which  skirted  the  road.  There 
Jordan  let  go  his  rein,  and  the  two  waited  the  coming  of 
Brown,  whose  horse's  hoofs  were  now  clattering  noisily  over 
the  sand  of  the  rain-hardened  highway. 

The  newcomer  was  nearly  abreast  of  the  two  horsemen  in 
the  wood,  when  Bent  gave  a  quick  yell,  and  his  horse  bounded 
suddenly  into  the  road,  with  his  huge  bulk  nearly  blocking 
the  narrow  passage. 

"  Halt !  "  cried  Bent.  "  You  d — d  rebel !  halt  and  surren- 
der ! " 

Brown  had  reined  in  his  horse  at  the  first  sound ;  but  now 
he  came  to  a  full  halt,  and  said,  coolly,  — 

"  Who  is  ye  that  asks  me  to  surrender?  " 

"  Captain  Bent,  of  the  Union  army,  by — !  and  you're  my 
prisoner  !  "  cried  Bent,  in  excited  tones. 

"  Kot  egzac'tly,  Mr.  Bent.     I  knows  ye,  and  I'm  good  fur 


A     M  I  D  N  I  G  H  T     11  I  I)  i;  .  195 

ye  ary  day.     But,  let  me  pass,  —  I'm  in  no  mood  ter-night 
fur  blood-sheddin'." 

"  No  ;  you'd  ratlier  roL  women  than  fight  men  ;  but  you'll 
get  your  deserts.     Surrender  at  once,  or  I'll  put  a  bullet  into 

you." 

''  No,  no,  Dick,"  said  Jordan,  spurring  his  mare  in  between 
the  two ;  "  don't  be  rash.  Mr.  Brown,  we  are  two  against 
you  ;  but  give  your  word  you'll  say  nothing  of  this  meeting, 
and  you  may  go  unmolested." 

''  And  who  is  ye  as  knows  me  ?  "  said  Brown. 

"  No  matter,  —  only  promise,  and  you  may  go." 

"  By  the  Lord  !  "  cried  Brown.  "  It'r  Jordan  !  I  want  to 
thank  ye,  Mr.  Jordan,  for  the  way  ye's  stood  by  Rachel." 

."Never  mind,  —  that's  past.     I  wish  I  could  thank   you 
for  the  way  you've  stood  by  other  defenceless  women." 

"  Wall,  I  has  done  some  mean  things,  Mr.  Jordan.  I  own 
it ;  but  I  haint  half  so  bad  as  they  tell  on." 

"  You're  a  d — d  thief  and  scoundrel,  that's  what  you  are  ! 
and  there's  no  discount  upon  it,"  cried  Bent,  angrily. 

"  Mr.  Bent,"  said  Brown,  through  his  grated  teeth,  "  ye 
couldn't  hev  said  that,  and  lived,  on  ary  night  but  this  in  the 
whole  year.  But  I  knows  ye,  —  ye's  a  honest  man,  and 
that's  what  I  mean  to  be,  if  I  live.  Then  I'll  fight  ye  fa'r, 
man  ag'in  man,  when  we  come  together." 

"  Say  no  more,  Dick,  we  are  wasting  time,"  said  Jordan. 
"  Mr.  Brown,  you  will  give  me  your  word  you'll  not  mention 
this  meeting  ?  " 

"  I  will.  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair  uv  yer  head  fur  all  Ken- 
tucky." 


196  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  ni  trust  you.  Now,  Dick,  move  aside,  and  let  him 
pass." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  let  him  go,"  said  Bent,  standing  stock 
still  in  the  road.     "  What  the  devil's  got  into  you,  John  ?  " 

"  Only  a  little  sense,  and  that  you  never  had.  Stand  hack, 
I  tell  you,  and  let  him  go." 

The  last  sentence  was  uttered  in  a  voice  that  either  "  Devil " 
or  his  rider  understood,  for  both  went  aside,  and  gave  Brown 
the  whole  highway. 

Spurring  his  horse  a  little  forward,  Brown  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Jordan,  I  shan't  forget  this,  and  I'll  let  ye  know  'fore 
I  die  that  Brad.  Brown  can  be.  a  gentleman." 

The  words  came  to  Jordan  on  the  wind ;  for,  with  his  com- 
panion, he  was  already  galloping  rapidly  up  the  deserted 
highway. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


A    MARCH   AND    A    BATTLE. 


T  was  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  following 
day  when  Jordan  and  his  companion  rode  up  to  the 
head-quarters  of  the  Union  general  at  Louisa.  Dis- 
mounting at  the  "door-way,  they  gave  their  horses  in 
charge  of  an  orderly,  who  was  lounging  near,  and  then, 
drenched  to  the  skin  and  mud-bespattered  as  they  were, 
entered  the  parlor  of  the  mansion,  —  the  deserted  residence 
of  a  well-to-do  rebel,  who,  a  short  time  before,  had  ''left  his 
country  for  his  country's  good."  Two  young  men  in  showy 
uniforms  were  seated  by  a  window,  but,  giving  them  no  heedj 
Bent  rapped  heavily  at  the  door  of  an  inner  apartment.  Soon 
a  stout,  burly  man,  half  clad,  with  one  boot  on  and  the  other 
off,  and  a  white  foam  clinging  to  one  half  of  his  face,  appeared 
in  the  door-way. 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  in  a  strong, 
guttural  voice. 

'•  Nothing,  general,"  said  Bent,  removing  his  hat ;  "  only 
we've  had  a  life-and-death  ride  of  forty  miles,  and  are  in  a 
hurry  to  see  you." 

"  Well,  what  luck  ?     Did  you  find  Jordan?  " 

"  Yes,  general,  and  his  news  will  put  us   into  the  saddle 

17*  (197) 


198  ON     THE     B  O  li  D  E  11  . 

"  And  why  the  devil  didn't  you  bring  him  with  you  ?  Fetch 
him  at  once  ;  don't  lose  a  moment." 

"  He  is  with  me.  This  is  Mr.  Jordan,"  said  Bent,  pointing 
to  his  companion,  and  breaking,  after  a  moment,  into  a  bois- 
terous peal  of  laughter.  In  their  haste  to  obtain  audience  of 
the  Union  commander,  the  two  travellers  had  forgotten  Jor- 
dan's unpresentable  appearance,  and  it  now  rushed  in  all  its 
forlornity  upon  the  mind  of  Bent.  In  truth,  as  he  stood 
there,  ail^ayed  in  the  tattered  garments  of  the  old  negro,  his 
forehead  densely  black,  and  the  charcoal  lying  in  grimy 
streaks  on  the  rest  of  his  face,  Jordan  was  a  somewhat  ludi- 
crous object.  iSTelson  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot,  and 
managed  to  articulate,  soberly,  — 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  jou,  Mr.  Jordan."  Then  his  mirth  over- 
came his  good-breeding,  and,  joining  heartily  in  the  laugh 
of  Bent,  he  cried  out,  "  And  this  is  the  man  who  floored  old 
Cecil?" 

Jordan's  impassive  features  expressed  neither  mirth  nor 
displeasure.     He  only  said,  coolly,  — 

'•  I  have  come  with  important  information,  sir ;  but  I  wiU 
wait  till  you  can  give  me  attention." 

"  I'll  give  it  now.  Come  in,  and  close  the  door.  And, 
pardon  me,  Mr.  Jordan,  but  you  do  look  like  the  devil.  Close 
the  door,  and  sit  down  ;  I  can  talk  and  shave  at  the  same 
time.  You've  got  out  of  rather  a  tight  box,  Mt.  Jordan,"  he 
said,  restiming  his  work  before  the  looking-glass. 

"  Yes,  sir,  rather  close  quarters." 

"  How  was  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  general.     The   turnkey  came  to  my  cell 


A     MARCH     AND     A     BATTLE.  199 

about  midnight,  took  off  my  irons,  and  let  me  out  of  the  jail. 
Then  I  went  through  the  rebel  camp,  and  came  away." 

"  Went  through  the  rebel  camp  !  "  'Here  the  general  laid 
down  his  razor,  and  turned  with  a  look  of  surprise  at  Jordan. 
^'  How  could  you  do  that  ?  '' 

''  The  turnkey  had  the  countersign  from  the  man  who 
bribed  him  to  release  me  ;  with  that  it  was  easy." 

"  Yes,  but  ticklish  ;  you  had  a  rope  round  your  neck." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  what  I  learned  was  worth  the  risk." 

"  What  did  you  learn  ?  " 

"  That  Williams  has  three  thousand  men,  and  in  thirty  days 
will  have  ten  thousand.  Recruits  are  coming  in  rapidly  from 
the  southern  counties,  and  he  is  daily  expecting  reinforce- 
ments, by  the  way  of  Pound  Gap,  from  Virginia." 

"  The  devil  he  is  !     What  does  he  mean  to  do  then  ?  " 

"  March  northward,  and  drive  you  from  the  State.  Then 
Kentucky  will  be  lost." 

Tlie  general  by  this  time  had  scraped  the  last  flake  of  foam 
from  his  upper  lip,  and  now,  laying  his  open  razor  upon  the 
table,  he  sat  down,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  looked  intently  at 
Jordan  for  some  moments.     Then  he  said,  — 

"  And  what  would  you  do  to  save  it  ?  " 

"  !March  at  once  upon  Williams  with  every  man  I  could 
muster." 

"  And  how  long  should  we  be  in  getting  there  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  twenty  days." 

"  But  then  he  would  have  an  army  of  nearly  ten  thou- 
sand." 

"  Very  likely,  but  poorly  armed  and  equipped.     With  three 


200  ON     THE     BORDER. 

thousand  such  troops  as  yours,  you  could  drive  him  into  Vir- 
ginia, and  keep  him  there." 

"  And  so  save  Kentucky." 

"  Not  only  save  Kentucky,  —  cut  the  Confederacy  in  two, 
and  give  a  crushing  blow  to  the  rebellion  ! " 

''  How  so  ?  " 

"  Eecruits  would  flock  to  you  from  all  quarters.  In  thirty 
days  you  would  have  twenty  thousand.  With  them  you 
could  march  into  East  Tennessee,  capture  the  salt-works  in 
Smythe  county,  get  possession  of  the  Knoxville  railroad,  and 
so  cut  Kentucky  and  Tennessee  ofl"  from  Kichmond." 

"  Mr.  Jordan,  you  have  a  head  on  your  shoulders  ;  but  you 
forget  one  thing,  —  I  couldn't  subsist  an  army  in  that  region 
ten  days." 

"  You  could,  for  ten  years,  general.  The  region  is  full  of 
live  stock,  and  the  country  people  would  give  you  their  last 
bushel  of  corn.  One  man  has  gathered  a  thousand  beeves 
there,  in  one  week,  for  the  rebels." 

"  But  how  shall  I  get  there  ?  The  roads  are  impassa- 
ble." 

"  They  are  along  the  river ;  but  by  the  way  of  Peach 
Orchard  and  Liberty  you  could  get  through  with  a  light 
train ;  j^our  first  supplies  should  go  up  by  boat  to  Pres- 
tonburgh,  —  the  country  would  do  the  rest." 

"  But  the  boats  would  be  taken  by  the  guerillas." 
.  "  Not  if  guarded.     Weddington's  is  the  only  considerable 
gang,  and  he  is  between  here  and  Liberty.     You  would  drive 
him  before  you  by  taking  that  route." 

"  Give  me  two  hundred  men,  general,"  said  Captain  Bent, 


A     MARCH     AND     A     BATTLE.  201 

"and  I'll  bag  that  'bird'  by  this  time  to-morrow.  I  sur- 
rounded him  last  night." 

"Not  so  fast,  Dick,"  said  Nelson.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added,  —  "  Tell  a  boy  out  there  to  bring  me  a  cigar 
and  a  glass  of  brandy.  By  the  way,  have  you  had  break- 
fast ?  " 

"  No,  general,"  answered  Bent,  "  not  a  mouthful  since  yes- 
terday noon.     I'll  order  an  extra  glass,  if  you  don't  object." 

"  Order  breakfast  for  three,  and,  Mr.  Jordan,  be  good 
enough  to  wash  the  black  off  your  face  ;  you  do  look  like  the 
devil." 

While  Bent  went  out  to  order  breakfast,  and  Jordan  intro- 
duced his  face  to  the  wash-basin.  Nelson  sat  before  the  fire, 
gazing  intently  into  the  blaze,  apparently  forgetful  of  his 
half-shod,  half-clad  condition.  When  the  table  had  been 
some  time  spread.  Bent  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  say- 
ing, — 

"  General,  the  brandy  is  waiting,  and  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
bear." 

Then  he  rose,  drew  on  his  coat,  and  sat  down  to  breakfast ; 
but  throughout  the  meal  uttered  not  a  word,  —  not  even  an 
oath ;  and  this,  to  those  who  knew  him  well,  may  seem  not 
altogether  characteristic.  When  the  meal  was  about  over,  he 
turned  to  Jordan,  and  bringing  his  hand  down  upon  the  ta- 
ble, by  way  of  additional  emphasis,  said,  — 

"  By ,  sir,  when  I  bag  '  old  Cerro  Gordo,'  I'll  have  you 

made  a  colonel."  ^ 

"  Then  you  mean  to  act  on  my  suggestion  ?  "  said  Jordan. 

"  Yes,  si?'  /  I'll  set  out  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  men  ready 
and  hear  from  Sherman  ;  but  I  shan't  wait  for  him.     He  has 


202  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  K  R  . 

already  proposed  the  movement;  all  that  staggered  him 
was  how  to  get  supplies  in  that  God-forsaken  region.  Are 
3^ou  sure  about  that?  '' 

'•  I've  been  over  everj^  foot  of  the  whole  region.  You  will 
not  only  have  supplies,  but  the  moment  you  touch  Tennessee, 
reinforcements  will  pour  in  upon  3'ou  b}^  the  thousand.  Before 
January  you  will  have  an  army  of  fifty  thousand,  and  with 
that  force  among  those  mountains  you  could  hold  out  against 
the  world.  I  will  go  ahead,  burn  the  railroad  bridges,  and 
rouse  the  whole  Piedmont  region." 

"  By ,  Jordan  !  you  are  a  trump.     But  how  will  you 

get  through  ?  " 

"  After  you  have  driven  Williams  that  will  be  easy." 

The  events  which  followed  have  already  gone  into  history, 
and  only  such  brief  mention  of  them  need  here  be  made  as  is 
necessary  to  preserve  the  thread  of  our  narrative. 

On  the  20th  of  October  General  Xelson  put  his  army  in 
motion.  On  the  morning  of  the  23d  his  advance  guard,  un- 
der Colonel  Marshall,  came  up  with  the  gang  of  Wedding- 
ton  at  West  Liberty.  After  a  short  conflict  the  rebels  fled, 
leaving  twenty-one  dead  and  thirty-four  wounded  in  the 
hands  of  the  Federals.  Pressing  on,  they  encountered  the 
same  evening,  at  Hazelgreen,  the  remnant  of  the  gang,  rein- 
forced by  the  squad  sent  out  in  pursuit  of  Jordan.  Another 
short  conflict  ensued,  resulting  in  the  capture  of  thirty-eight 
of  the  rebels.  Weddington  himself  escaped,  and  Cecil,  se- 
verely wounded  by  the  younger  Jordan,  had  previously  been 
removed  to  his  home  at  Piketon. 

Halting  at  Hazelgreen  to  get  his  men  together,  Kelson  in 


A     .MARCH     AND     A     BATTLE.  203 

a  few  days  resumed  liis  march,  and,  on  the  5th  of  November, 
entered  Prestonburgli,  driving  the  rebels  before  him.  Here 
he  divided  his  army  into  two  bodies,  and  at  once  advanced 
upon  Piketon.  Despatching  a  force  of  sixteen  hundred,  un- 
der Colonel  Sill,  by  the  way  of  Jones'  Creek,  to  cut  off  the 
retreat  of  the  rebels,  he,  with  the  rest  of  his  command,  — 
eighteen  hundred  infantry,  —  advanced  by  the  direct  road 
along  the  Big  Sandy.  The  advance  guard  of  this  body,  un- 
der Colonel  Marshall,  was  ambuscaded  by  the  enemy  in  a 
strong  natural  position,  twelve  miles  south  of  PiketoTi  5  but, 
after  standing  their  ground  for  a  while,  they  gave  way,  and 
scattered  in  the  surrounding  forest.  Pressing  on  with  his 
whole  column,  Nelson  attacked  the  main  body  of  the  enemy 
at  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning,  and  in  an  hour  the 
rebels  were  fleeing  in  all  directions.  "  Cerro  Gordo "  Wil- 
liams and  eleven  hundred  of  his  army  made  good  their  escape 
into  Virginia,  but  the  State  was,  for  a  time,  freed  from  rebel 
dominion. 

The  history  of  the  expedition  cannot  be  better  told  than  in 
the  following  address  of  General  Nelson  to  his  troops,  which 
was  issued  after  the  battle  : 

"  Head-quakters,  Camp  Hopeless  Chase,  ) 
Piketon,  Ky.,  Nov.  10,  1861.      3 

"  Soldiers,  —  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  done.     In  a 

campaign  of  twenty  days,  j^ou  have  driven  the  rebels  from 

Eastern  Kentucky,  and  given  repose  to  the  State.     You  have 

made  continual  forced  marches  over  wretched  roads,  deep  in 

mud;  badly  clad,  you  have  bivouacked   on    the  wet  ground 

in  the  November  rains  without  a  murmur.     With  scarce  half 

rations,  j'ou  have    pressed  forward  with   unfailing   persever- 


204  ON     THE     BORDER. 

ance.  The  only  place  that  the  enemy  made  a  stand,  though 
ambushed  and  very  strong,  you  drove  him  from  in  the  most 
brilliant  style.  For  your  constancy  and  courage  I  thank  you, 
and  with  the  qualities  which  you  have  shown  that  you  pos- 
sess, I  expect  great  things  from  you  in  the  future. 

W.   i^ELSON." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


RESULTS. 


MOiSTG  those  captured  by  the  Union  forces  was  Judge 
Cecil,  —  who,  though  convalescent,  was  unable  to  bear 
the  fatigue  of  a  hasty  march  into  Virginia,  —  and 
Bradley  Brown,  who  had   returned  to  Piketon,  but 
had  not  enlisted  in  the  rebel  ranks,  or  resumed  his  previous 
occupation  of  cattle-stealer  for  the  rebel  army.     As  soon  as 
Jordan  learned  of  Brown's  capture  he  sought  him  among  the 
rebel  prisoners  ;  but,  failing  to  find  him  in  the  prison-quar- 
ters, he  went  —  led  by  a  sort  of  instinct  —  to  the  dingy  pub- 
lic-house which  still    affords    accommodation   to  such    unfor- 
tunate men  and  beasts  as  an  inscrutable  destiny  consigns  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  its  surly,  whiskey-drinking  landlord. 
There   he   found   him,  seated   in    a  corner  of  the  smoke-be- 
clouded bar-room,  his  head  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  his  senses 
half  drowned  in  the  frequent  potations  in  which  he  had  been 
indulging.     Touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  Jordan  said,  — 
"  Mr.  Brown,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 
"  Go  wi'  ye  ! "  said  Brown,  looking  up  with  unsteady  gaze, 
and  speaking  thick  and  brokenly,  "  I  reckon  I  wont.     I  guv 
my  word  to  Dick  Bent,  —  and  he's  a  gentleman,  every  inch 
of  him,  —  and  I  reckon  I  wont.     I  wont  stir  from  yere  till 

18  (205) 


206  ON     THE     liOKDKK. 

I'm  tuck  out  dead  —  dead  ;  and  the  sooner  that  happens  the 
better." 

"  You  needn't  speak  of  death,"  said  Jordan  ;  "  you  are  not 
going  to  die,  —  not  till  you've  kept  your  word  to  me,  and 
shown  yourself  a  gentleman." 

Brown  looked  up  again  with  the  same  meaningless  stare ; 
but  in  a  moment  staggered  unsteadilj'  to  his  feet,  and,  holding 
forth  his  hand,  stammered  out,  — 

"  Why,  Mr.  Jordan,  is  it  ye  ?  Is  it  ye  ?  But  I  might  hev 
know'd  it ;  nobody  else  would  speak  kind  to  a  pore  broken 
devil  loike  me  ;  nobody  but  ye  and  Dick  Bent ;  and  he's  a 
gentleman,  Mr.  Jordan,  —  every  inch  a  gentleman." 

"I  know,"  answered  Jordan;  "-when  he  lets  brandy  alone. 
And  so  can  you  be,  if  you'll  keep  sober.  But,  come,  I  want 
you  to  go  with  me,  —  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

"  Do  suthin'  fur  ye  ! '"  exclaimed  Brown,  again  clutching 
Jordan's  hand.  "  I'll  do  arything  fur  ye,  —  I'd  die  fur  ye, — 
I  would,  Mr.  Jordan !  I'd  let  'em  draw  my  blood  drop  by 
drop,  if  'twould  do  ye  ary  good." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Jordan,  putting  his  arm  within  that 
of  Brown,  and  leading  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  ar^  it,  Mr.  Jordan  ?  "  said  Brown,  somewhat  sobered 
by  the  pure  air  of  the  open  street.  "What  kin  I  do  fur 
ye?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning.  Come  to  my  tent,  and  sleep 
off  the  effects  of  the  liquor,  then  I'll  tell  you." 

On  the  following  morning,  thoroughly  sobered  by  a  night's 
sleep,  Brown  said  to  Jordan,  — 

'•  I'm  ashamed,  Mr.  Jordan,  to  hev  ye  find  me  as  ye  done  j 


RESULTS.  207 

but  I  couldn't  holp  it,  —  I  couldn't  holp  it.  If  I  didu't  drink, 
1  should  go  crazy  wi'  all  the  trouble  that's  on  me." 

"  I  know  you  have  trouble,  and  I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said 
Jordan,  whose  keen  penetration  had  already  detected  the 
secret  of  Brown's  depressed  feelings.  "But  I  have  work  for 
you  that  will  keep  your  mind  busy,  and  —  take  you  back  to 
Kachel." 

,''  Hev  ye  ?  I'll  do  it,  Mr.  Jordan ;  but  —  gwine  back  to 
Rachel !  There's  no  chance  uv  that,  —  no  chance,  Mr.  Jor- 
dan. She's  said  the  word,  and  nothin'  '11  turn  her.  If  ye 
thinks  so,  ye  don't  know  her  as  I  does." 

"  I  didn't  refer  to  that,"  said  Jordan,  with  some  hesitation. 
"  That  is  between  yourselves.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to 
help  me  to  remove  the  negroes  into  Ohio.  They  have  been 
declared  free,  and  now  can  go ;  but  'Zekiel  is  too  old  to  attend 
to  everything,  and  I  have  to  be  away  for  a  fortnight,  —  per- 
haps for  a  month.  I  want  you  to  get  their  things  to  Paint- 
ville,  hire  some  flat-boats  to  take  them  down  the  river,  and 
have  all  in  readiness  against  my  return,  when  I  wiU  go  with 
them." 

"  I'd  do  it,  Mr.  Jordan,  willin' ;  but  I'se  a  prisoner  yere  on 
parole.     I  can't  stir  out  o'  Piketon." 

"  I  will  get  your  release  from  the  general,"  said  Jordan. 

"  Then  I'll  go,  —  go  to-day,"  answered  Brown. 

Knowing  the  commanding  general's  pro-slavery  proclivities, 
Jordan  omitted,  in  his  application  for  the  release  of  Brown, 
all  mention  of  the  real  object  for  which  he  was  going,  and 
merely  stated  that  he  desired  him  to  superintend  some  busi- 
ness which  miglit  sufter  if  not  at  once  attended  to.  The 
request  was  readily  granted,  and  the  general  added,  — 


208  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  Ask  anything  of  me,  Jordan.  I  have  not  forgotten  my 
promise  to  see  you  made  a  colonel." 

Brown  started  that  day  for  the  little  hamlet  among  the 
mountains,  and  on  the  same  evening  Jordan  set  out  on  his 
long  and  perilous  expedition  into  Tennessee.  The  country 
was  still  infested  with  straggling  bands  of  rebel  guerillas, 
but  he  made  his  way  over  the  mountains  in  safety,  and  soon 
the  results  of  his  journey  were  known  to  the  whole  country. 
Every  bridge  between  Knoxville  and  the  Cumberland  Gap, 
on  the  great  line  of  railway  which  connects  Richmond  with 
the  south-west,  was,  within  a  fortnight,  destroyed,  and  the 
Confederacy,  for  the  time  being,  as  effectually  cut  asun- 
der as  if  an  earthquake  had  suddenly  put  an  impassable  gulf 
between  its  two  sections.  Nothing  remained  to  insure  the 
permanent  dismemberment  of  the  South  but  for  Nelson  to 
march  with  his  whole  force  —  now  sixty-five  hundred  strong 
. —  to  the  occupation  of  Knoxville. 

But  this  was  not  to  be.  The  country  was  not  yet  ready  to 
do  equal  and  exact  justice  to  all  men ;  and  so  its  heroic  sons 
were  yet  to  march  over  the  burning  j^loughshare,  and,  with 
bleeding  feet,  to  tread  the  wine-press  of  His  wrath  in  the 
weary  years  that  were  coming. 

Nelson  had  received  his  superior's  approval  of  Jordan's 
great  project,  and  was  just  on  the  eve  of  setting  out  on  the 
expedition,  when,  with  the  bulk  of  his  forces,  he  was  sud- 
denly recalled  to  Louisville,  and  East  Kentucky  was  once 
more  laid  open  to  the  inroads  of  the  enemy. 

One  of  those  little  events  had  occurred  which  so  often 
changed  the  destinies  of  the  war.  Tired  out  with  the  tardy 
and  inefficient  measures  of  the    general    government,   Sher- 


RESULTS.  209 

man,  on  tlie  very  day  that  Jordan  set  out  for  Tennessee,  had 
resigned,  and  Buell  had  succeeded  him  in  command  of  the 
department.  This  altered  the  whole  programme  of  opera- 
tions. East  Tennessee  was  left  to  its  fate ;  the  campaign 
which  resulted  in  the  barren  and  bloody  battle  of  Shiloh  was 
decided  on,  and  the  troops  in  East  Kentucky  were  ordered 
westward,  to  take  part  in  the  monster  expedition  which,  it 
was  hoped,  would  open  the  Mississippi  from  the  Ohio  to  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico. 

On  his  return,  rather  more  than  a  fortnight  after  setting 
out  on  the  expedition,  Jordan  learned  these  facts,  and  that 
Piketon  was  again  in  possession  of  the  rebel  forces,  who,  re- 
entering the  State  at  Pound  Gap,  were  already  rapidly  re- 
cruiting in  the  disaffected  southern  counties.  With  a  heavy 
heart  he  turned  his  horse  to  the  westward,  and,  after  a  peril- 
ous ride  of  two  days  and  nights,  entered  Paintville  at  early 
dawn  on  the  morning  of  the  first  of  December.  The  place 
was  held  by  a  portion  of  the  Fourteenth  Kentucky  (Union) 
regiment,  and  was  the  most  southerly  point  then  in  pos- 
session of  the  Union  forces.  So  soon  had  all  the  fruits  of 
Nelson's  toilsome  march  been  thrown  aw^ay  by  the  blundering 
policy  of  Buell  and  the  officials  at  Washington ! 
18* 


CHAPTER    XIY. 


THE  REMOVAL. 


HE  day  succeeding  Brown's  arrival  at  the  plantation 
was  Sunday,  and  then,  to  the  survivors  and  descend- 
ants of  the  fifty  slaves  originally  liberated  by  Wed- 
.  dington's  will,  —  now  numbering,  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  a  hundred  and  twenty,  —  Ezehiel  announced  from 
the  pulpit  of  the  little  church  that  the  glad  day  which, 
through  twenty  years  of  deferred  hope  and  ceaseless  struggle, 
they  had  longed  and  prayed  for,  had  at  last  come,  and  they 
were  about  to  be  led  out  of  the  land  of  Egj-pt,  out  of  the  house 
of  bondage,  into  a  fair  country,  flowing  with  milk  and  hone}', 
beyond  the  Ohio. 

A  time  of  mingled  grief  and  rejoicing  followed ;  for  some 
must  go  and  some  must  sta}^,  and  ties  of  a  lifetime  were  to  be 
rudely  sundered ;  but  on  the  following  morning  they  set  about 
preparing  for  the  journey.  Every  little  article  of  furniture, 
however  poor,  had  to  be  gathered  up,  and  carried  along,  and 
thus  more  than  a  fortnight  went  away  before  they  were  ready 
to  go ;  but  at  last  they  set  out,  —  a  motley  caravan,  laughing, 
and  weeping,  and  singing,  and  shouting  by  turns,  on  the  road 
to  Paintville.  A  dozen  heavy  wagons,  bearing  their  house- 
hold goods,  led  the  way,  and  two  lighter  vehicles  followed. 
(210) 


THE     REMOVAL.  211 

In  one  of  these,  drawn  by  the  old  mule,  rode  Ezekiel  and  the 
widow  Jordan;  in  the  other,  Brown  and  his  wife  Rachel. 
They  had  met  but  once  since  his  arrival  at  the  plantation, 
and  he  had  avoided  her  on  the  plea  that  he  must  be  away  at 
Paintville  most  of  the  time  in  making  arrangements  for  the 
removal  of  the  negroes ;  but  now  he  asked  permission  to  drive 
her  to  the  village,  determined  to  make  one  last  effort  to  in- 
duce her  to  fulfil  the  promise  she  had  made  to  "  love,  honor, 
and  keep  him.  in  sickness,  and  in  health,  and,  forsaking  all 
others,  to  keep  only  to  him,  so  long  as  tliey  both  should   live." 

As  the  little  cabin  went  out  of  sight  among  the  trees,  he 
turned  to  her  and  said,  in  a  voice  husky  with  emotion,  — 

"Ivachel,  ye's  gwine  'mong  strange  folks,  inter  a  strange 
kentry,  —  wont  ye  be  lonely  thar?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered ;  "  Mrs.  Jordan  will  be  with  me ; 
and,  besides,  I  shant  have  time  to  be  lonely,  —  there  will  be 
so  much  to  do  for  the  negroes." 

"  Yes,  at  fust ;  but  as  soon's  they's  settled  they'll  do  fur 
tharselves;  then  ye'U  have  time  to  think,  —  then  ye'll  be 
lonely,  and,  'sides,  ye'U  have  no  one  to  keer  fur  ye." 

"  Yes,  I  shall ;  'Zekiel  will  care  for  me." 

"  But  'Zekiel  carn't  live  forever." 

"He  may  outlive  me.  He's  not  eighty,  and  he  says  his 
grandfather  lived  to  be  more  than  a  hundred." 

"  Wall,  ye  don't  tuck  my  meanin',  Rachel.  Wont  ye  let 
me  go  with  ye  ?  Wont  3'e  be  my  wife  ag'in  ?  I'se  been  a 
readin'  the  good  Book  lately,  and  ye  know  it  say  them  as  God 
has  jined  together  haint  to  be  put  asunder,  but  fur  one 
thing,  —  and  I'se  allers  been  true  to  ye,  Rachel." 

"  I  know  what  the  Bible  saji-s,"  she  answered,  somewhat 


212  ON     THE     BOKDEK. 

impatiently,  "  but  I  have  given  you  my  answer,  —  I  cannot 
be  your  wife  again." 

"  But  wont  ye  let  me  go  wi'  ye  ?  "  lie  said,  after  a  pause, 
and  in  pleading  tones,  —  "  not  to  be  yer  husband ;  but  to  be 
nigh  ye,  —  whar  I  kin  see  ye,  and  work  fur  ye,  and  know  yer 
happy?  Somehow,  I  carn't  stand  up  and  be  a  man,  when 
I'se  away  from  ye,  Rachel ;  I  haint  no  backbone.  I  fall  into 
bad  ways,  and  I  shill  be  lost,  body  and  soul,  —  I  knows  I  shill 
be  lost,  if  I  carn't  be  nigh  ye,  see  ye  once  in  a  while,  and 
know  ye  think  a  little  uv  him  as  cares  more  fur  ye  nor  he 
does  for  all  the  rest  uv  creaytion." 

Her  words  had  a  harsh,  gritty  tone,  as  if  she  had  steeled 
her  mind  with  a  fixed  purpose,  when  she  answered,  — 

"No,  Bradley,  we  each  must  stand  alone.  The  sight  of 
you  is  a  trial  to  me ;  it  brings  back  things  I  would  forget ; 
makes  me  discontented  with  the  lot  my  own  folly  has  made 
for  me.     We  cannot  live  near  one  another ! " 

He  di*ew  a  long  breath,  and  his  ruddy  face  took  on  a  deathly 
pallor,  as  with  these  words  his  last  hope  went  out,  and  he  saw 
stretching  before  him  a  lonely,  dreary  lifetime.  It  was  many 
minutes  before  he  spoke ;  then,  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  he 
answered,  — 

"  God  forgive  ye,  Rachel !  May  ye  never  know  what  it  ar' 
to  love  only  one  thing  in  the  world,  and  to  hev  that  one  thing 
turn  inter  an  icicle  ! " 

Her  face  was  as  pallid  as  his ;  but  she  made  no  reply,  and 
in  another  hour,  during  which  neither  spoke,  they  parted  at 
the  door-way  of  the  mean  public  house  at  Paintville. 

The  negroes  were  soon  housed  in  a  deserted  building,  in 
which  Brown  had  fitted  up  rude   but  comfortable   quarters, 


THE     R  K  M  O  V  A  L  .  213 

and  the  same  day  they  began  loading  their  household  goods 
upon  one  of  the  uncouth  flat-boats  he  had  chartered  for  their 
voyage  down  the  river.  It  was  tedious  work  ;  for  they  han- 
dled each  poor  article  of  furniture  as  if  it  had  been  a  piece 
of  porcelain;  but  by  midnight  all  was  on  board,  and  they 
went  back  to  their  quarters,  to  patiently  await  the  coming  of 
Jordan. 

In  the  morning  he  came,  and,  hearing  of  the  presence  of  the 
negroes,  went  at  once  to  the  landing.  There  he  was  met  by 
Brown,  who  explained  to  him  all  his  arrangements. 

"  You  have  managed  admirably,  Mr.  Brown.  How  much 
money  have  you  expended  ? "  said  Jordan,  drawing  out  a 
leathern  wallet. 

"  I  haint  kep'  no  'count,"  answered  Brown,  "  and  I  carn't 
tuck  no  pay ;  I  warn't  to  do  this  much  fur  ye,  —  ye  kep'  my 
wife  from  starvin'." 

"Never  mind  that;  I  would  rather  pay  you,  though  the 
negroes  have  none  too  much  to  set  them  a-going  in  Ohio." 

"  Wall,  let  it  go  fur  them,  then  ;  'taint  much,  and  they's  a 
decent  set  uv  darkies.'*' 

Jordan  thanked  him,  and  then  Brown,  holding  out  his 
hand,  said,  — 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Jordan.  If  I  kin  ever  do  ye  a  good  turn, 
I'll  do  it.  Brad.  Brown  never  forgets  a  kind  thing,  if  he  ar' 
a  drunken  critter." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  asked  Jordan.  "  Wont  you 
come  with  us,  and  help  me  get  the  flat  down  the  river  ?  I 
know  nothing  of  navigation." 

"  No,  Mr.  Jordan,  I  carn't.  Thar's  been  a  exchange,  and  I 
must  go  back  to  the  rebels." 


214  (»  N     THE     B  O  R  1)  K  It  . 

"  ils'ot  to  fiHit  ai^ain  against  the  Union  ?  "" 

o  o  o 

"I  never  font,  —  I  only  stole  I "'  said  Brown,  bitterly; 
*'  but  now,  I  reckon,  I'll  guv  up  stealiu',  and  go  to  foutin' ; 
fur  it'll  keep  me  busj^,  and  ar'  man's  business." 

"  I  am  sorry,  —  3'ou  will  figlit  against  your  fi-iends  and 
your  country." 

"  Friends  !  I  haint  no  friends,  Mr.  Jordan  ;  and  as  for  the 
kentry,  it'r  which  and  t'other  whoever  whips.  The  durned 
'ristocrats'll  rule,  whether  it'r  rebel  or  Union  ;  and  a  pore 
man  haint  no  chance  with  nuther." 

'•  That  is  too  true  —  on  this  side  of  the  border,"  said  Jor- 
dan ;  "  but  why  not  go  to  Ohio  with  Rachel  ?  " 

"  Kachel !  Don't  ye  speak  uv  thet !  She's  said  a'ready  she 
warn't  willin'.     Good-by,  jNIr.  Jordan." 

Saying  this,  he  turned  and  walked  rapidly  away  from  the 
landing. 

At  the  stable  of  the  tavern,  where  he  went  for  the  horse 
he  had  ridden  from  Piketon,  and  which,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  still  rightfully  belonged  in  that  vicinity,  he  was  met 
by  the  old  negro. 

"  Whar  am  you  a-gwine,  Massa  Brown  ?  "  asked  Ezekiel, 
as  he  saw  him  preparing  to  mount  the  animal. 

"To  the  devil, 'Zeke,  —  put  a  beggar  on  horseback,  ye 
knows,  and  he's  shore  to  go  thar." 

"  Yas ;  'Zeke  knows,"  answered  the  old  black,  laughing ; 
"  but  you  haint  a  beggar,  Massa  Brown  ;  nor  you  wont  be, 
so  long  as  you  keep  dis  ; "  and  he  drew  the  bag  of  gold  from 
his  capacious  pocket. 

"  Then  your  missus  wont  keep  it  ?  "  said  Brown,  bitterly. 

"No,   Massa  Brown.      But  'taint   dat,  —  'taint   'case    she 


THE     K  E  M  O  V  A  L.  215 

don't  loike  you,  :Massa  Brown.  It'm  'case  we's  enuff  wid 
lier  IuukIs  and  'Zeke's,— and  p'raps  wid  dis  you  kin  git 
anodor  homo  and  anoder  "ooman." 

Brown  said  not  a  word,  but,  leaning  over  liis  saddle-bow, 
took  the  bag  of  money,  and  then,  burying  the  rowels  in  the 
flanks  of  his  horse,  turned  up  the  mountain  road  that  led  to 
the  rebel  camp  which  again  was  forming  at  Piketon. 


CHAPTER    XV 


A    TRIAL  AND    A   TEMPTATION. 


N  the  following  morning  the  negroes  were  embarked 
on  an  empty  flat-boat  that  was  moored  to  the  dock 
near  their  lodgings,  and,  going  upon  another,  which 
was  freighted  with  their  household  goods,  Jordan, 
his  mother,  Eachel,  and  the  mare,  "  Beauty,"  set  out  on  the 
voyage  down  the  river.  Their  way  was  slow,  for  the  water 
was  low,  and  the  channel  narrow  and  difficult  of  navigation ; 
but  at  nightfall  they  rounded-to  at  the  wharf  at  George's 
Creek,  only  thirty  miles  from  the  longed-for  Ohio.  Here 
Jordan  went  on  shore  to  gather  further  information  about  the 
river,  before  venturing  down  by  moonlight.  He  was  away  only 
half  an  hour,  but,  on  his  return  to  the  boats,  found  them 
in  possession  of  a  squad  of  soldiers,  and  the  negroes  huddled 
together,  like  frightened  sheep,  upon  the  landing.  As  he 
approached,  Ezekiel,  his  furrowed  face  wet  with  tears,  came 
forward  to  meet  him. 

'^  It'r  all  up,  Massa  John,"  he  said  ;  "  all  up.     Read  dese. 
"We  muss  go  back  inter  bondage." 

Jordan  glanced  at  the  two  papers  the  black  handed  him. 
One  was  a  writ  from  the  court  of  Johnson  county,  restraining 
him,  or  any  other  person,  from  removing  out  of  the  State  cer- 
f216) 


A     TRIAL     AND     A     TEMPTATION.  217 

tain  negroes,  who  were  claimed  as  the  property  of  Jackson 
Weddington,  Esquire.  This  was  signed  by  Judge  Cecil. 
The  other  was  an  order  to  the  same  effect,  addressed,  "  To 
all  whom  it  may  concern  ;  "  and  this  was  signed  by  "  William 
Nelson,  Commander  of  the  Department  of  East  Kentucky." 
This  last  made  no  mention  of  Jordan,  which  rendered  it 
probable  that  the  general  had  given  it  in  ignorance  of 
his  connection  with  the  negroes.  Both  bore  date  ten  days 
previously,  showing  that,  with  a  refinement  of  cruelty  worthy 
of  savages,  the  men-hunters  had  purposely  delayed  the  ex- 
ecution of  the  papers  until  the  blacks  had  removed  their  little 
store  of  worldly  wealth,  and  were  almost  within  sight  of  their 
long-hoped-for  freedom. 

Jordan's  first  thought  was  to  go  to  Nelson,  at  Louisville, 
and,  by  an  appeal  to  his  humanity,  induce  him  to  countermand 
his  order ;  but  Nelson  was  strongly  pro-slavery  in  sentiment. 
He  feared  the  war  would  induce  a  stampede  among  the  ne- 
groes of  Kentucky,  and  this  was  a  first  step  in  that  direction. 
Besides,  he  would  not  be  likely  to  annul  the  order  of  a  court, 
the  reestablishing  of  which  had  been  a  part  of  his  plan  for 
pacifying  the  district. 

Uncertain  what  to  do,  Jordan  was  turning  away  to  take 
counsel  of  himself  in  silent  reflection,  when  his  arm  was 
touched  lightly  by  the  young  officer  in  command  of  the  squad 
of  soldiers. 

"  Mr.  Jordan,"  he  said,  "  this  is  unpleasant  business  ;  but 
my  orders  are  strict,  —  these  negroes  must  be  at  the  head  of 
Blaine  by  this  hour  to-morrow  morning." 

"  By  to-morrow  morning  !  "  exclaimed  Jordan.     "  You  cer- 
tainly can't  mean  that  these  women  and  children,  half-clad  as 
19 


218  ON     THE     BORDER. 

they  are,  shall  be  made  to  march  twenty  miles  over  the  frozen 
ground,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  in  winter  ! " 

"  Those  are  my  orders,  —  they  are  strict ;  the  negroes  must 
he  at  the  Weddington  plantation  by  daylight  to-morrow. 
And  I  must  tell  you  further,  Mr.  Jordan,  my  orders  are 
to  scuttle  and  sink  both  of  the  boats.  I  will  give  you  two 
hours  to  remove  the  furniture." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Jordan,  without  turning  round. 
"  That  is  enough.  Come,  'Zekiel,  and  bring  every  man  and 
woman  with  you." 

The  negroes  ceased  their  lamentations,  and,  going  to  work 
with  a  will,  soon  had  the  furniture  unladen,  and  stowed  away 
under  the  roof  of  a  half-vacant  building  which  served  as  a 
storehouse  for  passing  steamers.  Then  the  soldiers  scuttled 
and  sunk  the  boats  ;  and  then,  escorted  by  the  whole  squad, 
now  mounted  on  stout  horses,  the  old  negro  led  his  flock  back 
into  the  w^ilderness. 

"When  the}'  had  gone,  Jordan  applied  at  every  one  of  the 
half-dozen  houses  which  compose  the  little  hamlet,  to  get 
lodgings  for  his  mother  and  Rachel ;  but  at  none  of  them 
could  they  be  admitted.  Jordan  was  kno\^Ti  to  be  a  Union 
man,  proscribed,  and  under  sentence  of  death  by  the  Con- 
federates, and  not  one  of  the  inhabitants  would  risk  the 
^Tath  of  the  rebels,  —  who,  it  was  rumored,  were  gradually 
driving  the  Union  troops  from  the  mouth  of  the  river,  — 
by  giving  shelter  to  the  two  houseless  women  with  whom  he 
was  connected. 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  went  back  to  the  storehouse. 
There  was  no  fire,  and  no  means  of  making  one  in  the 
building ;  but  opening  the  negroes'  stores,  he  spread  before 


A     TRIAL     AND     A     TEMPTATION.  219 

the  two  women  a  scanty  meal,  and  then  arranged  for  them  a 
bed  in  the  most  sheltered  comer  of  the  storehouse.  When 
this  was  done,  he  went  out  upon  the  landing  to  get  strength, 

—  strength  from  the  Source  that  never  faileth.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  his  mental  vision  was  clouded,  and  his  heart, 
as  it  were,  lead  in  his  bosom. 

The  freedom  of  these  negroes  had  been  the  great  purpose 
of  his  father  s  life,  and  his  own  dream  from  early  boyhood. 
Often  had  the  old  Scotchman  said  to  him,  as  year  after  year 
he  had  gone  on  with  the  well-nigh  hopeless  legal  struggle,  — 

"  John,  I  may  not  live  to  get  through  it ;  but  don't  you 
die  till  you  see  these  poor  j^eople  safely  settled  in  Ohio." 

This  the  boy  had  promised,  and  when,  after  long  years, 
he  had  set  about  carrying  the  promise  into  execution,  he  felt 
that  he  was  doing  that  for  which  the  brave  old  man,  who  had 
given  his  life  for  him,  would,  when  they  should  meet  in  an- 
other world,  bless  him.     But  now  all  his  plans  were  crushed, 

—  crushed  by  his  own  friends,  —  by  the  very  man  whom  he 
had  aided  to  what  many  a  soldier  values  most,  —  reputation  ; 
and  who  had  professed  to  owe  him  a  lasting  debt  of  grati- 
tude. As  he  thought  of  all  this,  a  feeling  of  bitterness  came 
over  him,  and  for  a  moment  his  heart  wavered  in  its  love  — 
pure  and  unselfish  till  now  —  for  his  State  and  his  Country. 
Why  should  he  spend  his  strength  for  such  returns  ?  ^Vhy 
give  his  time,  perhaps  his  life,  to  secure  peace  and  safety  to  a 
people  who  seemed  destitute  of  every  feeling  of  justice  and 
humanity  ? 

The  night  was  dark  and  cold.  A  thin  coat  of  snow  covered 
the  ground,  and  a  misty  veil  of  clouds  shrouded  the  sky, 
letting  the  stars  shine  but  dimly.     But  in  the  cold  and  the 


220  ON     THE     BORDER. 

darkness  lie  stood  there,  now  looking  up  at  the  sky,  and  now 
down  along  the  windings  of  the  gloomy  river.  At  last  he 
sank  to  his  knees,  his  hands  clenche'd  together,  and  his  head 
bent  downward.  Long  he  prayed,  pleading  with  God  as  a 
child  pleads  with  its  father ;  asking  help,  guidance,  and 
strength  to  do  the  work  which  it  was  his  to  do  for  his  coun- 
try. 

As  he  finished,  a  soft  arm  wound  itself  about  his  neck,  and 
a  wavy  head  sank  down  on  his  shoulder.  Kneeling  beside  him 
was  Rachel. 

"  0  John ! "  she  said,  "  I  know  it  all.  I  know  how  you 
feel.  I  know  you  are  throwing  your  strength  and  your  life 
away.  But  let  us  go,  —•let  us  go  to  some  free  State  where 
we  can  live  in  peace  together.  I  will  go  with  you  ;  I  will  be 
your  wife.  You  shall  never  know  a  care  or  a  sorrow ; "  and 
she  pressed  her  cheek  against  his,  and  clung  to  him  with  a 
strange,  convulsive  energy.  He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and, 
bending  down,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  Then  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and,  putting  away  her  soft  brown  hair,  drew  her 
gently  to  him. 

"  I  knew  the  truth  would  come  to  you,  Rachel,"  he  said, 
tenderly ;  "  but  it  can't  be  in  this  world ;  it  will  be  in  the 
other.     Then  you  will  be  mine  forever." 

"And  why  not  in  this  world,  John?"  she  said.  "Only 
he  is  in  the  way,  and  the  law  will  free  me  from  him  to- 
morrow." 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  "  and  now,  with  his  great  hand  he  gently 
stroked  her  forehead.  "  But  I  have  work  to  do,  Rachel ;  work 
which  I  must  do,  to  stand  where  you  would  have  me  when 
I  change  this  world  for  the  other.     That  work  I  can't  do,  if 


A     TRIAL     AND     A     TEMPTATION.  221 

my  little  girl  is  with   me; — can't  do,  unless  she  learns  to 
stand  alone  and  be  a  true  woman." 

^'  But  I  can't  stand  alone,  John.  I  can't  live  without  you. 
I  so  long  for  you,  at  times,  that  it  seems  I  shall  die  if  you  are 
kept  from  me  any  longer." 

"  And  so  do  I  for  you,  Kachel ;  but  I  go  to  God,  and  he 
gives  me  strength,  —  strength  to  do  my  work,  and  to  bear  all 
He  lays  upon  me.     Go  to  Him,  my  darling ! " 

Her  arms  twined  again  about  his  waist,  and  her  head  sank 
again  upon  his  shoulder ;  and  so  they  stood  there  for  many 
minutes,  neither  of  them  speaking.  At  last  she  looked  up, 
and  said,  — 

"  0  John,  I  ivill  pray ;  I  will  try  to  be  a  true  woman." 
"You  are  my  own  Rachel,"  he  said,  bending  down,  and 
again  placing  his  lips  to  her  forehead.     "  You  are  my  own 
Rachel,  and  there  will  be  a  recompense  for  all  this,  —  for  all 
this,  in  the  hereafter." 

The  next  morning,  mounting  Rachel  and  his  mother  on  the 
back  of  "  Beauty,"  Jordan  led  them  slowly  and  wearily  back 
to  the  little  cabin  among  the  mountains.  There  he  remained 
for  a  fortnight,  superintending,  at  first,  the  bringing  back  of 
the  household  goods  of  the  negroes,  and  then  lying  out  in  the 
woods,  to  escape  the  murderous  gangs  of  rebels,  who  again 
were  overrunning  the  whole  district. 

Then  a  new  actor  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  Jordan  was 
again  able  to  do  some  service  to  his  State  and  Country.     This 
new  actor  was  a  young  Ohio  officer,  who  now  took  command 
of  the  Union  forces  in  Eastern  Kentucky. 
19* 


CHAPTER   XYI. 


A  NEVt  ACTOR    ON   THE  SCENE. 


^^qjjHIS  young  officer  had  a  character  that  peculiarly  fit- 

0,  (^1  ted   him   for   the    arduous  work   which  was  before 

^;,r^:  whoever  attempted  to  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  the 

'-^^es^:  Union  arms  in  Eastern  Kentucky. 

Born  in  a  log  hut,  in  the  depths  of  the  Ohio  wilderness,  he 
was  the  younger  son  of  a  poor  widow,  and  his  early  life  had 
been  one  of  great  hardship  and  poverty.  Until  he  was  six- 
teen, he  gained  a  livelihood  by  working  on  a  farm,  and  in  a 
dry  saltern,  doing  odd  jobs  of  carpentering,  and  by  driving 
the  horses  of  a  boat  on  the  Ohio  and  Pennsylvania  Canal. 
While  on  the  canal,  he  fell  in  with  another  boy,  some  years 
his  senior,  who  was  named  Bradley  Brown,  and  whose  disso- 
lute habits  might  have  led  him  into  bad  courses,  had  not  a 
singular  event  occurred,  which  changed  the  whole  current  of 
his  life,  and  turned  a  new  page  in  his  history.  This  event 
was  a  narrow  escape  from  drowning. 

One  rainy  midnight,  as  the  boat  on  which  he  was  employed 
was  leaving  one  of  those  long  reaches  of  slackwater  which 
abound  in  the  Ohio  and  Pennsylvania  Canal,  the  boy  was 
called  out  of  his  berth  to  take  his  turn  in  tending  the  bow- 
line.    Tumbling  out  of  bed,  his   eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  he 

(222) 


A     \  i:  ^V'     A  C  T  U  H     O  N     T  H  K     S  C  K  N  E  .  22C) 

took  his  stand  on  tlie  narrow  platform  below  the  bow  deck, 
and  began  uncoiling  a  rope  to  steady  the  boat  tlirough  a  lock 
it  was  approaching.  Slowly  and  sleepily  he  unwound  the 
coil,  till  it  knotted,  and  caught  in  a  narrow  cleft  in  the  edge 
of  the  deck.  He  gave  it  a  sudden  pull,  but  it  held  fast ; 
then  another  and  a  stronger  pull,  and  it  gave  way,  but  sent 
him  over  the  bow  of  the  boat  into  the  water.  Down  he  went 
into  the  dark  night  and  the  still  darker  river;  and  the  boat 
glided  on,  to  bury  him  among  the  fishes.  No  human  help 
was  near.  God  only  could  save  him,  and  he  only  by  a  mira- 
cle. So  the  boy  thought  as  he  went  do>\^n,  saying  the  prayer 
his  mother  had  taught  him.  Instinctively  clutching  the 
rope,  he  sank  below  the  surface :  but  then  it  tightened  in  his 
grasp  and  held  firmly.  Seizing  it  hand  over  hand,  he  drew 
himself  up  on  deck,  and  was  again  a  live  boy  among  the  liv- 
ing. Another  kink  had  caught  in  another  crevice  and  saved 
him.  Was  it  that  prayer,  or  the  love  of  his  praying  mother, 
which  wrought  this  miracle?  The  boy  did  not  know,  but 
long  after  the  boat  had  passed  the  lock,  he  stood  there,  in  his 
dripping  clothes,  pondering  the  question. 

Coiling  the  rope,  he  tried  to  throw  it  again  into  the  crevice  ; 
but  it  had  lost  the  knack  of  kinking.  Many  times  he  tried, 
—  six  hundred,  says  my  informant,  —  and  then  sat  down, 
and  reflected. 

"I  have  thrown  this  rope,"  he  said  to  himself,  "six  hun- 
dred times ;  I  might  throw  it  ten  times  as  many  without  its 
catching.  Ten  times  six  hundred  are  six  thousand;  so  there 
were  six  thousand  chances  against  my  life.  Against  such 
iidds,  Providence  only  could  have  saved  it.  Providence, 
therefore,   thinks  it  worth  saving;  and  if  that's  so,  I  wont 


224  ON    THE     BORDER. 

throw  it  away  on  a  canal-boat.     I'll  go  home,  get  an  educa- 
tion, and  become  a  man." 

Straightway  he  acted  on  the  resolution,  and  not  long  after- 
ward stood  before  his  mother's  log  cottage  in  the  Cuyahoga 
wilderness.  It  was  late  at  night,  the  stars  were  out,  and  the 
moon  was  down  ;  but  .  by  the  fire-light,  tliat  came  through 
the  window,  he  saw  his  mother  kneeling  before  an  open  book, 
which  k}^  on  a  chair  in  the  corner.  She  was  reading,  but  her 
eyes  were  off  the  page,  looking  up  to  the  Invisible. 

"  Oh,  turn  unto  me,"  she  said,  "  and  have  mercy  upon  me  ! 
give  Thy  strength  unto  Thy  servant,  and  save  the  son  of 
Thine  handmaid ! " 

More  she  read,  which  sounded  like  a  prayer,  but  this  is  all 
that  the  boy  remembers. 

He  opened  the  door,  put  his  arm  about  her  neck,  and  his 
head  upon  her  bosom.  What  words  he  said  I  do  not  know  ; 
but  there,  by  her  side,  he  gave  back  to  God  the  life  which  he 
had  given.  So  the  mother's  prayer  was  answered.  So  sprang 
up  the  seed  which  in  toil  and  tears  she  had  planted. 

Then  the  boy  went  to  work  in  earnest.  With  a  saw  and  a 
jack-plane  he  fitted  himself  for  college ;  and,  borrowing 
money  upon  a  policy  of  insurance  on  his  life,  partly  worked 
and  partly  paid  his  way  through  an  eastern  university.  At 
the  age  of  twenty-four  he  graduated,  a  man,  with  a  body 
hardened  by  toil,  and  a  mind  strengthened  and  energized  by 
early  struggles,  and  a  fixed  purpose  —  born  of  his  experience 
on  that  rainy  midnight  —  to  give  aU  his  strength  and  aU  his 
life  to  the  work  that  fell  to  him  for  God  and  humanity. 

The  blood  of  the  Ballous  was  in  his  veins  ;  so  at  first  he 
took  to  preaching,  as  naturally  as  a  duck  takes  to  water ;  but 


A     NEW     A  C  T  O  K     ON     THE     SCENE.  225 

soon  he  was  made  President  of  the  Collegiate  Institute  at 
Hiram,  Ohio,  and  within  three  years  was  elected  to  the  Sen- 
ate of  his  native  State.  A  man  of  nearly  thirty,  he  was  serv- 
ing in  that  body  when  the  war  broke  out,  and  it  was  he  who 
sprang  to  his  feet,  when  the  President's  call  for  seventy-five 
thousand  men  was  announced  to  the  Ohio  Senate,  and,  amid 
the  tumultuous  acclamations  of  the  assemblage,  moved  that 
twenty  thousand  troops  and  three  millions  of  money  should 
at  once  be  voted  as  the  quota  of  the  State. 

Not  many  months  afterward  Governor  Dennison  offered 
him  command  of  a  regiment.  He  went  home,  opened  his 
mother's  Bible,  and  pondered  upon  the  subject.  He  had  a 
wife,  a  child,  and  a  few  thousand  dollars.  If  he  gave  his  life  to 
the  country,  would  God  and  the  few  thousand  dollars  provide 
for  his  wife  and  child  ?  He  consulted  the  Book  about  it.  It 
seemed  to  answer  in  the  affirmative,  and  before  morning  he 
wrote  to  a  friend,  — 

"I  regard  my  life  as  given  to  the  country.  I  am  only 
anxious  to  make  as  much  of  it  as  possible  before  the  mortgage 
on  it  is  foreclosed." 

To  this  man,  who  thus  went  into  the  war  with  a  life  not 
his  own,  was  given,  on  the  20th  of  December,  1861,  command 
of  aU  the  Union  troops  in  Eastern  Kentucky ;  and  thus  it  was 
that  he  became  an  actor  in  our  brief  history. 

He  knew  nothing  of  war  beyond  its  fundamental  principles ; 
which  are,  I  believe,  that  a  big  boy  can  whip  a  little  boy,  and 
that  one  big  boy  can  whip  two  little  boys,  if  he  take  them 
singly,  one  after  the  other. 

He  knew  no  more  about  it,  and  yet  he  was  selected  by 
General  Buell  —  one  of  the  most  scientific  military  men  of  his 


226  ON     THE     BORDER. 

time  —  to  solve  a  problem  which  has  puzzled  the  heads  of 
the  ablest  generals ;  namely,  how  two  small  bodies  of  men, 
stationed  widely  apart,  can  unite  in  the  face  of  an  enemy 
and  beat  him,  when  he  is  of  twice  their  united  strength, 
and  strongly  posted  behind  intrenchments.  With  the  helj) 
of  many  "  good  men  and  true  "  he  solved  this  problem ;  and 
in  telling  how  he  solved  it,  I  shall  resume  the  direct  thread  of 
my  narrative. 

In  the  months  of  October  and  November,  this  graduate 
from  the  Ohio  and  Pennsylvania  Canal,  with  the  aid  of  Judge 
Sheldon,  of  Elyria,  Don  A.  Pardee,  of  Medina,  Ralph  Plumb, 
of  Oberlin,  and  other  patriotic  citizens  of  his  district,  had 
raised  the  Forty-second  Regiment  of  Ohio  Volunteers. 
Taking  its  command,  he  repaired  with  it  to  Camp  Chase, 
and  at  once  set  vigorously  to  work  to  master  the  art  and  mys- 
ter}"  of  war,  and  to  give  to  his  men  such  a  degree  of  discipline 
as  would  fit  them  for  effective  ser^-ice  in  the  field.  Bringing 
his  saw  and  jack-j^lane  again  into  play,  he  fashioned  com- 
panies, officers,  and  non-commissioned  officers  out  of  maple 
blocks,  and,  with  these  wooden-headed  troops,  thoroughly  mas- 
tered the  infantry  tactics  in  his  quarters.  Then  he  organized 
a  school  for  the  officers  of  his  regiment,  requiring  thorough 
recitation  in  the  tactics,  and  illustrating  the  manoeuvres  by 
the  blocks  he  had  prepared  for  his  own  instruction.  This 
done,  he  instituted  regimental,  company,  squad,  skirmish,  and 
bayonet  drill,  and  kept  his  men  at  these  exercises  from  six 
to  eight  hours  a  day,  until  it  was  universally  admitted  that 
no  better  drilled  or  disciplined  regiment  could  be  found  in 
Ohio. 

While  thus  employed,  he  was  suddenly  ordered  to  move  his 


A     NEW     ACTOR     ON     T  H  K     S  C  K  N  K .  227 

regiment,  by  the  way  of  Cincinnati,  to  Catlettsburg,  Kentucky, 
a  town  at  tlie  junction  of  the  Big  Sandy  and  the  Ohio,  and 
to  report  immediately,  in  person,  to  the  department  head- 
quarters at  Louisville.  Arriving  at  Louisville  just  at  sunset 
on  the  19th  of  December,  he  at  once  sought  an  interview 
with  General  Buell,  and  was  told  by  that  officer  that  he 
was  to  be  sent  against  the  rebel  General  Humphrey  Marshall, 
who  had  invaded  Eastern  Kentucky,  from  the  Virginia  bor- 
der, and  had  already  advanced  as  far  north  as  Prestonburg, 
driving  the  small  Union  force  before  him. 

How  many  men  Marshall  had  was  not  known  ;  but  he  was 
rapidly  gathering  an  army,  and,  if  unmolested,  would  soon 
have  a  large  force,  with  which  he  could  hang  on  Buell's  flank, 
and  so  prevent  his  advance  into  Tennessee,  or,  if  he  did  ad- 
vance, cut  off  his  communications,  and,  falling  on  fiis  rear, 
while  Beauregard  encountered  him  in  front,  crush  him,  as  it 
were,  between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones.  This  done, 
Kentucky  was  lost,  and  that,  occurring  so  early  in  the  war, 
the  dissolution  of  the  Union  might  have  followed. 

To  check  this  dangerous  advance,  meet  Marshall  —  a  thor- 
oughly educated  military  man  —  and  the  uncounted  hordes 
whom  his  reputation  would  draw  about  him,  the  inexperienced 
Ohio  colonel  was  offered  —  what  ?  Twenty -five  hundred  men, 
—  eleven  hundred  of  whom,  under  Colonel  Cranor,  were  at 
Paris,  Kentucky,  the  remainder  —  his  own  regiment,  and  the 
half-formed  Fourteenth  Kentucky,  under  Colonel  ^Nloore  —  at 
Catlettsburg ;  a  hundred  miles  of  mountain  country,  overrun 
with  rebels,  being  between  them !  This  was  the  problem  of 
the  big  boy,  —  of  uncertain  size,  but  known  to  be  skilled  in 
war,  —  and  the  two  little  boys,  who  were  to  whip  him,  when, 


228  ON     THE     BORDER. 

only  by  a  miracle,  could  they  act  together,  and  when  they 
knew  no  more  of  war  than  can  be  learned  from  the  posturing 
of  wooden  blocks,  and  the  crack,  perhaps,  of  squirrel  rifles. 

"  That  is  what  you  have  to  do.  Colonel  Garfield,  —  drive 
Marshall  from  Kentucky,"  said  Buell,  when  he  had  finished 
his  view  of  the  situation ;  "  and  you  see  how  much  depends 
on  your  action.  Now,  go  to  your  quarters,  think  of  it  over 
night,  and  come  here  in  the  morning,  and  tell  me  how  you 
will  do  it." 

On  the  way  to  his  hotel,  the  3'oung  colonel  bought  a  rude 
map  of  Kentucky,  and  then,  shutting  himself  in  his  room, 
spent  the  night  in  studying  the  geography  of  the  country  in 
which  he  was  to  operate,  and  in  making  notes  of  the  plan 
which  in  the  still  hours  came  to  him  as  the  only  one  feasible, 
and  likely  to  secure  the  objects  of  the  campaign. 

His  interview  with  the  commanding  general,  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  was,  as  may  be  imagined,  one  of  peculiar  inter- 
est. Few  army  officers  possess  more  reticence,  terse  logic, 
and  severe  military  habits  than  General  Buell,  and  as  the 
young  man  laid  his  rude  map  and  roughly-outlined  plan  on 
his  table,  and,  with  a  curious  and  anxious  face,  watched  his 
features  to  detect  some  indication  of  his  thought,  the  scene 
was  one  for  a  painter.  But  no  word  or  look  indicated  the 
commander's  opinion  of  the  feasibility  of  the  plan,  or  the 
good  sense  of  the  suggestions.  He  spoke,  now  and  then,  in  a 
quiet,  sententious  manner,  but  said  nothing  of  approval  or 
disapproval ;  only,  at  the  close  of  the  conference,  he  did  make 
the  single  remark,  — 

"  Your  orders  will  be  sent  to  you  at  six  o'clock  this  even- 
ing." 


A     NEW     ACTOR     ON     THE     SCENE.  229 

Promptly  at  that  hour  the  order  came,  organizing  the 
Eighteenth  Brigade  of  tlie  Army  of  the  Ohio,  Colonel 
Garfield  commanding ;  and  with  the  order  came  a  letter  of 
instructions,  in  Buell's  own  hand,  giving  general  directions  for 
the  campaign,  and  recapitulating,  with  very  slight  modifica- 
tions, the  plan  submitted  by  Garfield.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing ho  took  leave  of  his  general,  and  the  latter  said  to  him, 
at  parting,  — 

"  Colonel,  you  will  be  at  so  great  a  distance  from  me,  and 
communication  will  be  so  slow  and  difficult,  that  I  must  com- 
mit all  matters  of  detail,  and  much  of  the  fate  of  the  cam- 
paign, to  your  discretion.  I  shall  hope  to  hear  a  good  account 
of  you." 

Garfield  set  out  at  once  for  Catlettsburg,  and,  arriving 
there  on  the  twenty-second  day  of  December,  found  his  regi- 
ment had  already  proceeded  to  Louisa,  —  twenty-eight  miles 
up  the  Big  Sandy. 

A  state  of  general  alarm  existed  throughout  the  district. 
The  Fourteenth  Kentucky  —  the  only  force  of  Union  troops 
left  in  the  Big  Sandy  region  —  had  been  stationed  at  Louisa ; 
but  had  hastily  retreated  to  the  mouth  of  the  river  during  the 
night  of  the  nineteenth,  under  the  impression  that  Marshall, 
with  his  whole  force,  was  following  to  drive  them  into  the 
Ohio.  Union  citizens  and  their  families  were  preparing  to 
cross  the  river  for  safety ;  but  with  the  appearance  of  Gar- 
field's regiment  a  feeling  of  security  returned,  and  this  was 
increased  when  it  was  seen  that  the  Union  troops  boldly 
pushed  on  to  Louisa,  without  even  waiting  for  their  colonel. 
This,  however,  was  only  in  pursuance  of  orders  he  had  tel- 
egraphed on  the  morning  after  he  had  formed  the  plan  of  the 
20 


230  ON     THE     BORDER. 

campaign  by  midnight,  in  his  dingy  quarters  at  the  hotel  in 
Louisville. 

Waiting  at  Catlettsburg  only  long  enough  to  forward  sup- 
plies to  his  forces,  Garfield  appeared  at  Louisa  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  twenty-fourth  of  December,  and  thenceforward  he 
became  an  actor,  in  all  its  circumstances  considered,  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  dramas  to  be  read  of  in  history. 


CHAPTER    XYII 


COMMUNICATIONS    OPENED. 


ARFIELD  had  two  very  difficult  things  to  accom- 
plish. He  had  to  open  communications  with  Colonel 
Cranor,  while  the  intervening  country,  as  has  been 
said,  was  infested  with  roving  bands  of  rebels,  and 
filled  with  a  disloj-al  people.  He  had  also  to  form  a  junc- 
tion with  the  force  under  that  officer,  in  the  face  of  a  su- 
perior enemy,  who  would,  doubtless,  be  apprised  of  his  every 
movement,  and  be  likely  to  fall  upon  his  separate  columns 
the  moment  that  e-ither  was  set  in  motion,  in  the  hope  of 
crushing  them  in  detail.  Either  operation  was  hazardous,  if 
not  well-nigh  impossible. 

Evidently  the  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  find  a  trust- 
worthy messenger  to  convey  despatches  between  the  two 
halves  of  his  army.  To  this  end,  Garfield  applied  to  Colonel 
Moore,  of  the  Fourteenth  Kentucky. 

.  "Have  you  a  man,"  he  asked,  "who  will  die  rather  than 
fail  or  betray  us  ?  " 

The  Kentuckian  reflected  a  moment,  then  answered,  — 
"  I  think  I  have.     John  Jordan,  from  the  head  of  Blaine." 
Jordan  was  sent  for,  and  soon  entered  the  tent  of  the  Un- 
ion commander.     The  young  colonel  was  at  once  impressed 

(231) 


232  ON     THE     BORDER. 

with  his  appearance.  He  describes  him  as  a  tall,  gaunt,  sal- 
low man,  of  about  thirt}',  with  gray  eyes,  a  fine  falsetto  voice, 
pitched  in  the  minor  key,  and  a  face  which  had  as  many  ex- 
pressions as  could  be  found  in  a  regiment. 

To  him  he  seemed  a  strange  combination  of  cunning,  sim- 
plicitj^,  undaunted  courage,  and  undoubting  faith,  but  pos- 
sessed of  a  quaint  sort  of  wisdom,  which  ought  to  have  given 
him  to  history.  He  sounded  him  thoroughly,  for  the  fate  of 
the  campaign  might  depend  on  his  fidelity ;  but  Jordan's  soul 
was  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  young  colonel 
had  read  it  as  if  it  had  been  an  open  volume. 

"  Why  did  you  come  into  the  war  ? "  at  last  asked  the 
commander. 

"  To  do  my  23art  for  the  country,  colonel,"  answered  Jor- 
dan ;  "  and  I  made  no  terms  with  the  Lord :  I  gave  him  my  life 
without  conditions,  and  if  he  sees  fit  to  take  it  on  this  tramp, 
why,  it  is  his.     I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it." 

"  You  mean  that  you  have  come  into  the  war  not  expect- 
ing to  get  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  do,  colonel." 

"  Will  you  die  rather  than  let  the  despatch  be  taken  ?  " 

"IwiU." 

The  colonel  recalled  what  had  passed  in  his  own  mind 
when  poring  over  his  mother's  Bible  that  night  at  his  home 
in  Ohio ;  and  it  decided  him. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I  will  trust  you." 

The  despatch  was  written  on  tissue-paper,  rolled  into  the 
form  of  a  bullet,  coated  with  warm  lead,  and  put  into  the 
hand  of  Jordan.  He  was  given  a  carbine,  and  a  brace  of 
revolvers,  and,  mounting  his  mare  when  the  moon  was  down, 


C  O  M  >r  I-  N  I  C  A  T  I  O  X  S     O  P  E  N'  K  D  .  233 

ho  started  on  liis  perilous  journey.  He  was  to  ride  at  night, 
and  hide  in  the  woods,  or  in  the  houses  of  loyal  men,  in  the 
day  t  inn*. 

It  was  pitch  dark  when  he  set  out,  but  he  knew  every  inch 
of  the  wa}',  having  travelled  it  often,  driving  mules  to  mar- 
ket. He  had  gone  twenty  miles  by  early  dawn,  and  the 
cabin  of  Rachel  was  only  a  few  miles  beyond  him.  His 
mother  was  there,  and  there  he  would  hide  till  nightfall.  He 
pushed  on,  and  tethered  "Beauty"  in  the  timber;  but  it  was 
broad  day  when  he  rapped  at  the  door  and  was  admitted. 
He  was  received  joyfully,  and,  after  breakfast,  was  con- 
ducted by  Rachel  to  the  guest-chamber,  where,  lying  down  in 
his  boots,  he  soon  fell  into  a  deep  slumber. 

The  house,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  log  .cabin  in  the  midst 
of  a  few  acres  of  deadning,  —  ground  from  which  trees  have 
been  cleared  by  girdling.  Dense  woods  were  all  about  it; 
but  the  nearest  forest  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  and  had 
Jordan  been  tracked,  it  would  be  difficult  to  get  away  over 
this  open  space,  unless  he  had  warning  of  the  approach  of  his 
pursuers.  Rachel  thought  of  this,  and  sent  Ezekiel  up  the 
road,  on  the  old  mule,  to  watch  and  give  warning.  It  was 
high  noon  when  the  mule  came  back,  his  heels  striking  fire, 
and  the  old  man's  eyes  flashing,  as  if  ignited  from  the  sparks 
the  steel  had  emitted. 

"  Dey'm  comin',  missus,"  he  cried,  —  -'  not  half  a  mile  away, 
—  twenty  Secesh,  —  ridin'  as  ef  de  debil  was  arter  'em  !  " 

Mi-s.  Jordan  was  paralyzed,  but  Rachel  barred  the  door, 
and  hastened  to  the  guest-chamber. 

"Go,"  she  cried,  "through  the  window,  —  to  the  woods. 
They'll  be  here  in  a  minute  !  " 


234  ON     THE     B  « >  R  D  E  H  . 

"  How  many  of  them  ? "  asked  Jordan,  rising  to  his 
feet. 

''  Twenty.     Go  —  go  at  once,  or  you'll  be  taken." 

"  Yes,  I  hear  them.  There's  a  sorry  chance  for  my  life,  al- 
ready. But,  Rachel,  I've  that  about  me  that  is  worth  more 
than  my  life ;  that,  it  may  be,  will  save  Kentucky.  If  I'm 
killed,  will  you  take  it  to  Colonel  Cranor,  at  McCormick's 
Gap  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  wiU.  But  go  ;  you've  not  a  moment  to  lose,  I 
tell  3^ou." 

"  I  know ;  but  do  you  promise  to  take  this  to  Colonel  Cra- 
nor, before  the  Lord  who  hears  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do,"  she  cried,  clutching  the  bullet.  But 
horses'  hoofs  were  already  sounding  in  the  door-yard.  "  Oh, 
it's  too  late  !  "  she  cried,  wTinging  her  hands.  "  Why  did  you 
stop  to  parley  ?  " 

'•]S"ever  mind,  Rachel,"  answered  Jordan.  "Don't  feel 
badly.  Take  care  of  the  despatch.  Value  it  like  your  life,  — 
like  Kentucky.  The  Lord  is  calling  for  me,  and  I  am 
ready." 

He  was  mistaken.  It  was  not  the  Lord,  but  a  dozen  devils 
at  the  door-way. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Rachel,  in  answer  to  the  sum- 
mons from  outside. 

"  The  man  as  came  from  Garfield's  camp  at  sun-up,"  an- 
swered a  voice ;    "  John  Jordan,  from  the  head  of  Blaine." 

"  He's  not  to  be  taken  alive,"  said  Jordan.  "  Go  away,  or 
some  of  you  are  dead  men." 

"  Pshaw  ! "  said  another,  —  one  of  the  chivalry.  "  There 
are    twenty  of  us,    Jordan.     We'll    spare    your   life    if   you 


COMMUNICATIONS     O  T  K  N  K  I)  .  2o5 

give  up  the  despatcli ;  if  you  don't,  we'll  hang  you  higher 
than  Haman." 

The  reader  will  bear  in  mind  that  this  was  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war,  when  swarms  of  spies  infested  every  Union 
camp,  and  treason  was  only  a  gentlemanly  pastime,  not  the 
serious  business  it  was  before  traitors  were  dangerous. 

"  I've  nothing  but  my  life  that  I  will  give  up,"  answered 
"Jordan,  "  and  if  you  take  that,  you  will  have  to  pay  its  price, 
—  at  least  six  of  yours." 

"  Fire  the  house  !  "  shouted  one. 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  said  another.  "I  know  him,  —  he's 
cl'ar  grit,  —  he'll  die  in  the  ashes ;  and  we  wont  git  the  de- 
spatch." 

This  sort  of  talk  went  on  for  half  an  hour,  all  which  while 
the  mother  of  Jordan  was  by  her  bedside,  bent  down  in 
prayer. 

At  last  there  came  a  dead  silence,  and  Rachel  went  into  the 
loft,  whence  she  could  see  all  that  was  passing  on  the  outside. 
About  a  dozen  of  the  horsemen  were  posted  around  the  house  ; 
but  the  remainder,  dismounted,  had  gone  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  and  were  felling  a  well-grown  sapling,  with  the  evi- 
dent intention  of  using  it  as  a  battering-ram  to  break  down 
the  front  door. 

Coming  down  from  the  attic,  Rachel,  in  a  low  tone,  ex- 
plained the  situation,  and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  Jordan 
said,  — 

"  It  is  my  only  chance.  I  must  run  for  it.  Bring  me  a 
red  shawl,  Rachel." 

She  had  none,  but  she  had  a  petticoat  of  flaming  red  and 
yellow.     This  she  brought,  and,  handling  it  as  if  he  knew 


236  ON     THE     BORDER. 

liow  such  articles  can  be  made  to  spread,  Jordan  softly  un- 
barred the  door,  and  said,  in  a  low  whisper,  — 

"  Good-by,  mother.  Good-by,  Rachel.  It's  a  right  sorry 
chance ;  but  I  may  get  through.  If  I  do,  I'll  be  in  the 
w^oods  to-night ;  if  I  don't,  take  the  despatch  to  Colonel  Cra/- 
nor.     Good-by." 

The  barn  stood  to  the  right  of  the  house,  midway  between 
it  and  the  wood.  That  way  lay  the  route  of  Jordan.  If  he 
could  elude  the  two  mounted  men  at  the  door-way,  he  might 
escape  the  other  horsemen,  for  they  would  have  to  spring  two 
barn-yard  fences,  and  their  horses  might  refuse  the  leap.  But 
it  was  fool  of  man  against  leg  of  horse,  and  "  a  right  sorry 
chance." 

He  grasped  Rachel  by  the  hand,  then  suddenly  opened  the 
door,  and  dashed  at  the  two  horses  with  the  petticoat.  They 
reared,  wheeled,  and  bounded  away  like  lightning  just  let  out 
of  harness. 

In  the  time  that  it  takes  to  tell  it,  he  was  over  the  first 
fence,  and  scaling  the  second ;  but  a  horseman  was  making 
the  leap  with  him.  Jordan's  pistol  went  off,  and  the  rebel's 
earthly  journey  was  over.  Another  followed,  and  his  horse 
fell  mortall}^  wounded. 

The  rest  made  the  circuit  of  the  barn-yard,  and  were  rods 
behind  when  Jordan  reached  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Once 
among  those  thick  laurels,  nor  horse  nor  rider  can  reach  a  man, 
if  he  lies  low,  and  says  his  prayers  in  a  whisper. 

The  rebels  bore  the  body  of  their  dead  comrade  to  the  barn, 
and  one  of  them,  going  to  the  house,  said  to  Rachel,  — 

"We'll  be  revenged  for  this.  We  know  the  route  he'U 
take,  and  will  have  his  life  before  to-morrow;    and   you, — 


COMMUNICATIONS     OPENED.  237 

we'd  burn  your  house  over  your  head,  if  you  weren't  the  wife 
of  Brad.  Brown." 

"  And  he  ?  "  asked  Kachel ;  "  is  he  among  you  again  ?  " 
"  Yes,  he's  enlisted,  like  an  honest  man,  with  Marshall." 
Soon  the  rebels  rode  awa}',  taking  Eachel's  only  wagon  as 
a  hearse  for  their  dead  comrade. 

Night  came,  and  the  owls  cried  in  the  woods  in  a  way  they 
had  not  cried  for  a  fortnight.  "  T'whoot,  t'whoot ! "  they 
went,  as  if  they  thought  there  was  music  in  hooting.  Rachel 
listened,  put  on  a  dark  mantle,  and  followed  the  sound  of 
their  voices.  Entering  the  wood,  she  crept  in  among  the 
bushes,  and  talked  with  one  of  the  owls  as  if  he  had  been 
human. 

"  They  know  the  road  you'll  take,"  she  said  ;  "  you  must 
change  your  route.     Here  is  the  bullet." 

"  God  bless  you,  Rachel,"  responded  the  owl ;  "  you  are  a 
true  woman  ; "  and  he  hooted  louder  than  before,  to  deceive 
pursuers,  and  keep  up  the  music. 
"  Is  "  Beauty  "  safe  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Yes,  and  good  for  forty  miles  before  sun-up." 
"  Well,  here  is  something  to  eat ;  you'll  need  it.     Good-by, 
and  God  be  with  you." 

"  He  be  with  you,  for  he  loves  true  women." 
Their  hands  clasped,  and  then  they  parted ;  he  to  his  long 
ride,  she  to  the  quiet  sleep  of  those  who,  out  of  a  true  heart, 
serve  their  country. 

The  night  was  dark  and  drizzly,  but  before  morning  the 
clouds  cleared  away,  leaving  a  thick  mist  hanging  low  on  the 
meadows.  Jordan's  mare  was  fleet,  but  the  road  was  rough, 
and  a  slosh  of  snow  impeded  the  travel.     He  had  come  by  a 


238  ON     THE     BORDER. 

strange  wa}'^,  and  did  not  know  hov\-  far  he  had  travelled  by 
sunrise  ;  but  lights  were  ahead,  shivering  in  the  haze  of  the 
cold,  gray  morning.  Were  they  the  early  candles  of  some 
peaceful  village,  or  the  camp-fires  of  a  band  of  guerillas  ? 
He  did  not  know,  and  it  would  not  be  safe  to  go  on  till  he 
did  know.  The  road  was  lined  with  trees,  but  they  offered 
no  shelter,  for  they  were  far  apart,  and  the  snow  lay  white 
between  them.  He  was  in  an  "opening"  of  the  blue-grass 
region.  Leading  "  Beauty  "  into  the  timber,  he  climbed  a  tall 
tree  by  the  road-side,  but  the  mist  was  too  thick  to  admit  of 
his  discerning  anything  distinctly. 

The  fog,  however,  seemed  to  be  breaking  away,  and  he 
would  wait  until  the  road  was  clear  before  him ;  so  he  sat 
there  one  hour,  two  hours,  and  ate  his  breakfast  from  the 
satchel  Kachel  had  slung  over  his  shoulder. 

At  last  the  mist  lifted  a  little,  and  he  saw  close  at  hand  a 
small  hamlet,  —  a  few  rude  huts  clustered  about  a  cross-road. 
No  danger  could  lurk  in  such  a  place,  and  he  was  about  to 
descend  and  pursue  his  journey,  when  suddenly  he  heard,  up 
the  road  by  which  he  had  come,  the  rapid  tramp  of  a  body  of 
horsemen.  The  mist  was  thicker  below,  and  might  conceal 
him ;  so  half-way  down  the  tree  he  went  and  awaited  their 
coming.  They  moved  at  an  irregular  pace,  carrying  lanterns, 
and  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  inspect  the  road,  as  if 
they  had  missed  their  way,  or  lost  something.  Soon  they 
came  near,  and  were  dimly  outlined  in  the  gray  mist,  so  that 
Jordan  could  make  out  their  number.  There  were  thirty  of 
them,  —  the  original  band,  —  and  a  reinforcement.  Again 
they  halted  when  abreast  of  the  tree,  and  searched  the  road 
narrowlv. 


COMMUNICATIONS     OPENED.  239 

"  He  must  liave  come  this  way,"  said  one,  —  he  of  the 
chivalry.  "  The  other  road  is  six  miles  longer,  and  he  would 
take  the  shortest.  It's  an  awful  pity  we  didn't  head  him  on 
both  routes,  just  this  side  of  the  clearing." 

"  We  kin  come  up  with  him  yit,  if  we  turn  jjlumb  round, 
and  fuller  on  t'other  road,  whar  we  lost  the  trail,  back  thar, 
miles  to  the  deadnin',"  said  another,  —  Parson  Bradshaw,  now 
in  arms  for  the  Lord's  anointed,  —  slavery. 

Now  another  spoke,  and  his  voice  Jordan  recognized  as 
that  of  a  private  in  the  company  he  had  recently  joined  in 
the  Fourteenth  Kentucky. 

''  It's  so,"  he  said ;  "  he  has  tuck  t'other  road.  I  tell  ye 
I'd  know  that  mar's  shoe  'mong  a  million.     Nary  one  loike  it 

was  ever  seed  in  all  Kaintucky ;  only  a  d d  Yankee  could 

ha'  invented  it;^' 

"  And  yere  it  ar',"  shouted  the  parson,  who  held  one  of  the 
lanterns,  "plain  as  sun-up." 

The  Fourteenth  Kentuckian  clutched  the  light,  and,  while 
a  dozen  dismounted  and  crowded  round,  closely  examined  the 
shoe-track.  The  ground  on  the  spot  was  bare  of  snow,  and 
the  print  of  Beauty's  foot  was  clearly  cut  in  the  half-frozen 
mud.  Narrowly  the  man  looked,  and  Jordan's  life  or  death 
hung  on  his  eyesight.  He  took  out  the  bullet  and  placed  it 
in  a  crotch  of  the  tree.  If  they  took  him,  they  should  not 
take  the  deispatch.  Then  he  drew  a  revolver.  The  mist  was 
clearing  away,  and  he  would  surely  be  discovered  if  the  men 
remained  nnich  longer ;  but  he  would  have  the  value  of  his 
life  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

Meanwhile,  the  horsemen  crowded  eagerly  around  the  foot- 
print, and  one    of  them    inadvertently  trod   upon  it.      The 


240  ON     T  II  i:     BORDER. 

Kentuckian  looked  long  and  earnestly,  but  at  last  he 
said,  — 

"  'Taint  the  track.  Thet  ar'  mar'  has  a  sand-crack  on  her 
right  fore  foot.  She  didn't  tuck  kindly  to  a  round  shoe ;  so 
Jordan,  he  guv  her  one  with  the  cork  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  quarter.  'Twas  a  durned  smart  contrivance ;  fur,  ye  see, 
it  eased  the  strain,  and  let  the  nag  go  nimble  as  a  squirrel. 
The  cork  haint  yeve,  —  'taint  her  track,  and  we're  wastin' 
time  in  luckin'." 

The  print  of  the  cork  was  not  there,  because  the  trooper's 
tread  had  obliterated  it !  Let  him  be  remembered  for  that 
one  good  step,  if  he  never  took  another ;  for  it  saved  Jordan, 
and,  may  be,  it  saved  Kentucky.  "When  Jordan  returned 
that  wa}^,  he  halted  his  mare  abreast  of  that  tree  and  ex- 
amined the  ground  about  it.  There,  in  the  road,  was  the 
mare's  track,  with  the  print  of  the  man's  foot  still  upon  the 
inner  quarter  !  He  uncovered  his  head,  and  from  his  heart 
went  up  a  simple  thanksgiving. 

The  horsemen  gone,  Jordan  came  down  from  the  tree,  and 
rode  on  into  the  misty  morning.  There  might  be  danger 
ahead,  but  there  surely  was  danger  behind  him.  His  pursu- 
ers were  onl}^  half  convinced  they  were  on  his  trail,  and 
some  sensible  fiend  might  put  it  into  their  heads  to  divide, 
and  follow,  part  by  one  route,  part  by  the  other. 

He  pushed  on  over  the  sloshy  road,  his  mare  every  step 
going  slower  and  slower.  The  poor  animal  was  jaded  out; 
for  she  had  travelled  fifty  miles,  eaten  nothing,  and  been  sta- 
bled in  the  timber.  She  would  have  given  out  long  before 
had  she  not  had  a  grandfather.  As  it  was,  she  staggered 
along  as  if  she  had  taken   a  barrel  of  whiskey.     But  five 


C  O  .M  M  U  N  I  C  A  T  I  O  N  S     O  P  E  N  K  D  .  241 

miles  further  on  was  the  house  of  a  Union  man,  and  she 
must  reach  it  or  die  by  the  way-side.  Even  the  merciful  man 
regardeth  not  the  life  of  his  beast  when  he  carries  despatches. 
The  loyalist  did  not  know  Jordan;  but  his  face  secured 
him  a  friendly  welcome.  He  explained  that  he  was  from  the 
Union  camp  on  the  Big  Sandy,  and  oftered  any  price  fur  a 
horse  to  go  on  with. 

"  Yer  nag  ar'  wuth  ary  two  of  my  critters,"  said  the  man. 
"  Ye  can  tuck  the  best  beast  Pve  got ;  and  when  ye'se  ag'in 
this  way,  we'll  swop  back  even." 

Jordan  thanked  him,  mounted  the  horse,  and  rode  off  into 
the  mist  again,  without  the  warm  breakfast  which  the  good 
housewife  had  half  cooked  for  him  in  the  kitchen.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  and  at  twelve  that  night  he 
entered  Colonel  Cranor's  quarters  at  ]\IcCormick's  Gap,  — 
having  ridden  nearly  a  hundred  miles  with  a  rope  round 
his  neck,  for  thirteen  dollars  a  month,  hard  tack,  ^nd  a  shoddy 
uniform. 

The  colonel  opened  the  despatch.  It  was  dated  Louisa, 
Kentucky,  December  24th,  midnight;  and  directed  him  to 
move  his  regiment  at  once  to  Prestonburg.  He  would  en- 
cumber the  men  with  as  few  rations  and  as  little  luggage  as 
possible,  bearing  in  mind  that  the  safety  of  his  command 
would  depend  on  his  expedition.  He  would  also  cause  the 
despatch  to  be  conveyed  to  Lieutenant-Colonel  Woolford,  at 
Stamford,  and  direct  him  to  join  the  march  with  his  three 
hundred  cavalry. 

Hours  now  were  worth  months  of  common  time,  and  on 
the  following  morning  Cranor's  column  was  set  in  motion. 
Worn  out  with  fiitigue,  Jordan  lay  by  till  nightfall,  then  he 

21 


242  O  N     T  HE     BO  i:  D  E  u . 

set  out  on  his  return,  and  at  daybreak  swapped  the  loyalist*s 
now  jaded  horse  for  his  own  fresh  "  Beauty,"  even.  He  ate 
the  housewife's  breakfast,  too,  and  took  his  ease  with  the  good 
man  till  dark,  when  he  again  set  out,  and  rode  through  the 
niglit  in  safety.  After  that  his  route  was  beset  with  perils ; 
but  an  account  of  them  must  be  reserved  for  another  chap- 
ter. 


CHAPTER   XYIII 


A  HIARCH    IN   MID-WINTER. 


E  must  now  leave  Jordan  to  pursue  his  perilous  way 
alone,  and,  for  a  time,  go  back  to  the  Federal  camp 
at  Louisa.  The  contents  of  the  bullet  which  Jor- 
dan has  conveyed  to  Colonel  Cranor,  indicate  that  it 
is  the  intention  of  the  Union  commander  to  move  at  once 
upon  the  enemy.  Of  Marshall's  real  strength  he  is  ignorant ; 
but  his  scouts  and  the  country  people  report  that  the  rebel's 
main  body  —  which  is  intrenched  in  an  almost  impregnable 
position  near  Paintville  —  is  from  four  to  seven  thousand, 
and  that  an  outlying  force  of  eight  hundred  occupies  West 
Liberty,  —  a  town  directly  on  the  route  by  which  Colonel 
Cranor  is  to  march  to  effect  a  junction  with  the  main  L^nion 
army.  Cranor's  column,  as  has  been  said,  is  eleven  hundred 
strong,  and  the  main  body  under  Garfield  now  numbers  about 
seventeen  hundred  ;  namely,  the  Forty-Second  Ohio  Infantry, 
ten  hundred  and  thirteen  strong,  and  the  Fourteenth  Ken- 
tucky Infantry,  numbering  five  hundred  rank  and  file,  but 
imperfectly  armed  and  equipped.  All  told,  therefore,  Garfield 
has  a  force  of  only  twenty-eight  hundred,  in  a  strange  district, 
and  cut  off  from  reinforcements,  with  which   to   meet   and 

(243) 


244  ON     THE     BORDER. 

crush  an  army  of  at  least  five  thousand,  familiar  with  the 
country,  and  daily  receiving  recruits  from  the  disaffected 
southern  counties.  Evidently  a  forward  movement  is  attended 
with  great  hazard  ;  but  the  Union  commander  does  not  waste 
time  in  considering  the  obstacles  and  dangers  of  the  expe- 
dition. On  the  morning  following  the  departure  of  Jordan 
he  sets  out  up  the  river  with  such  of  his  command  as  are  in 
readiness,  and  halting  at  George's  Creek,  —  only  twenty  miles 
from  Marshall's  intrenched  position,  —  prepares  to  move  at 
once  upon  the  enemy. 

The  roads  along  the  Big  Sandy  are  impassable  for  trains, 
and  the  close  proximity  of  the  enemy  renders  it  unsafe  to 
make  so  wide  a  detour  from  the  river  as  would  be  required  to 
send  supplies  b}"  the  table-lands  to  the  westward.  In  these 
circumstances,  Garfield  decides  to  depend  mainly  upon  water 
navigation  for  the  transport  of  his  supplies,  and  to  use  the 
army  train  only  when  his  troops  are  obliged,  by  absolutely  im- 
passable roads,  to  move  away  from  the  river. 

The  Big  Sandy  is  a  naiTow,  fickle  stream,  and  finds  its  way 
to  the  Ohio  through  the  roughest  and  wildest  spurs  of  the 
Cumberland  mountains.  At  low  water  it  is  not  navigable 
above  Louisa,  except  for  small  flat-boats,  pushed  b}'  hand  ; 
but  these  ascend  as  high  as  Piketon,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  river.  In  time  of  high  water 
small  steamers  can  reach  Piketon ;  but  heavy  freshets  render 
navigation  impracticable,  owing  to  the  swift  current,  filled 
with  floating  timber,  and  to  the  overhanging  trees,  which 
almost  touch  one  another  from  the  opposite  banks.  At  this 
time  the  river  was  of  only  moderate  height ;  but,  as  will  be 
readily  seen,  the  supply  of  a  brigade  at  mid-winter,  l>y  such 


A     .M  A  11  C  II     IN     M  I  D  -  W  I  N  T  E  R  .  245 

an  uncertain  stream,  and  in  the  presence  of  a  powerful  enemy, 
was  a  thing  of  great  difficulty. 

However,  the  obstacles  do  not  intimidate  Garfield.  Gather- 
ing together  ten  days'  rations,  he  charters  two  small  steamers, 
and  impresses  all  the  flat-boats  he  can  lay  hand  on,  and  then, 
taking  his  army  wagons  apart,  he  loads  them,  with  his  forage 
and  provisions,  upon  the  flat-boats.  This  is  on  the  first  of 
January,  A.  d.  1862,  and  the  day  before  a  little  event  happens, 
which  has  a  decided  influence  on  the  result  of  the  expedition. 
This  is  the  appearance,  at  the  Union  head-quarters,  of  Bradley 
Brown,  who,  on  his  stolen  horse,  has  ridden  the  previous 
night  all  the  way  from  Marshall's  camp  near  Paintville. 

"Colonel,"  says  Captain  Bent,  of  the  Fourteenth  Kentucky, 
entering  Garfield's  tent  in  the  early  gray  of  the  morning, 
*'  there's  a  man  outside  who  saj^s  he  knows  you,  —  Bradley 
Brown,  a  rebel  thief  and  scoundrel." 

"  Brown  ? "  says  Garfield,  rising,  half-dressed,  from  his 
blanket,  "Bradley  Brown?  I  don't  know  any  one  of  that 
name." 

"  He  has  lived  near  the  head  of  Blaine,  —  been  a  boatma^n 
on  the  river,  —  says  he  knew  you  on  the  canal  in  Ohio." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answers  Garfield,  "  bring  him  in  ;  now  I  re- 
member him." 

In  a  moment  Brown  is  ushered  into  the  colonel's  quarters. 
He  is  clad  in  country  homespun,  and  spattered  from  head  to 
feet  with  the  mud  of  a  long  journey,  but,  without  any  regard 
to  the  sanctity  of  rank,  he  advances  at  once  upon  the  Union 
commander,  and,  grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  ex- 
claims, — 

"  Jim,  ole  feller,  how  ar'  ye  ?  " 

21* 


24:6  ON     THE     BORDER. 

The  colonel  receives  him  cordially;  but,  glancing  at  his 
ruddy  face,  says,  — 

"Fifteen  years  haven't  changed  you,  Brown, — you  still 
take  a  glass  of  whiskey.  But  what's  this  I  hear  ?  ^Vre  you 
a  rebel  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answers  Brown  ;  "  I  belong  to  Marshall's  force, 
and"  —  this  he  prefaces  with  a  burst  of  laughter  — "I've 
come  stret  from  his  camp  to  spy  out  yer  army." 

The  colonel  looks  surprised,  but  says,  coolly,  — 

"  Well,  you  go  about  it  queerly," 

"  Yes,  quar,  but  honest,  Jim,  —  when  yer  alone  I'll  tell 
ye  'bout  it." 

As  Bent  was  leaving  the  tent  he  said  to  his  commander  in 
an  under  tone,  — 

"  Don't  trust  him,  colonel ;  I  know  him,  —  he's  a  thief  and 
a  rebel." 

The  disclosures  of  Brown,  condensed  into  a  few  sentences, 
were  as  follows  :  — 

Hearing  a  short  time  before,  at  the  rebel  camp,  that 
James  A.  Garfield,  of  Ohio,  had  taken  command  of  the 
Union  forces,  it  at  once  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  his  old 
canal  companion,  for  whom,  as  a  boy,  he  had  felt  a  strong 
affection.  This  supposition  was  confirmed  a  few  days  later 
by  his  hearing  from  a  renegade  northern  man  something  of 
the  antecedents  of  the  colonel.  Bememberinsr  their  former 
friendship,  and  being  indifferent  as  to  which  side  was  suc- 
cessful in  the  campaign,  he  at  once  determined  to  do  an  im- 
portant service  to  the  Union  commander. 

With  this  object  he  sought  an  interview  with  Marshall, 
stated  to  him  his  former  acquaintance  with  Garfield,  and  pro- 


A     .M  A  U  C  11     IN     M  I  D  -  W  I  N  T  EV. .  247 

posed  that  lie  should  take  advantage  of  it  to  enter  the  Union 
camp,  and  learn  for  the  rebel  general  all  about  his  enemy's 
strength  and  intended  movements.  Marshall  at  once  fell  into 
the  trap,  and  the  same  night  Brown  set  out  for  the  Union 
arni}^,  ostensibly  to  s^Dy  for  the  rebels,  but  really  to  tell  the 
Union  Commander  all  that  he  knew  of  their  strength  and  po- 
sition. He  did  not  know  Marshall's  exact  force ;  but  he  gave 
Garfield  such  facts  as  enabled  him  .to  make,  within  half  an 
hour,  a  tolerably  accurate  map  of  the  rebel  position. 
When  this  was  done  the  Union  colonel  said  to  him,  — 
"Did  Bent  blindfold  you  when  he  brought  you  into 
camp  ?  '^ 

"  Yes,  gin'ral ;  I  couldn't  see  my  hand  afore  me." 
"  Well,  then  you  had  better  go  directly  back  to  Marshall.'^ 
"  Go  back  to  him  !    Why,  gin'ral,  he'll  hang  me  to  the  first 
tree  ! " 

"  No,  he  wont,  —  not  if  you  tell  him  all  about  my  strength 
and  intended  movements." 

"  But  how  kin  I  ?  I  don't  know  a  thing.  I  tell  ye  I  war 
blindfolded." 

"  Yes ;  but  that  don't  prevent  your  guessing  at  our  num- 
bers ;  and,  about  our  movements,  you  may  say  that  I  shall 
march  to-morrow  straight  for  his  camp,  and  in  ten  days  be 
upon  him." 

Brown  sat  for  a  moment  musing,  then  he  said,  — 
"  Wall,  gin'ral,  ye'd  be  a  durned  fool,  —  and  if  ye'r  thet  ye 
must  hev  growed  to  it,  —  ef  ye  went  upon  Marshall,  'trenched 
as  he  is,  with  a  man  short  uv  twenty  thousand.    I  kin  '  guess  ' 
ye's  thet  many." 

"  Guess  again,  —  I  haven't  that  number." 


248  ON     T  H  K     BO  li  D  i:  H  . 

"  Then,  ten  tlioiisand." 

"  Well,  that  will  do  —  for  a  Kentuckian.  Now,  to-day  I'll 
keep  you  under  lock  and  ke^-,  and  to-night  you  can  go  back 
to  Marshall." 

At  nightfall  Brown  set  out  for  the  rebel  camp,  and  on  the 
following  day  Garfield  put  his  little  army  —  reduced  now  by 
sickness  and  garrison  duty,  to  fourteen  hundred  —  in  motion. 

It  was  a  toilsome  march.  The  roads  were  knee-deep  in 
mire,  and  encumbered,  as  it  was,  wdth  only  a  light  train,  the 
army  made  very  slow  progress.  Some  days  it  marched  fiv6  or 
six  miles,  and  some  a  considerably'  less  distance  ;  but  on  the 
sixth  of  January  it  arrived  within  seven  miles  of  Paintville. 
Here  the  men  threw  themselves  upon  the  wet  ground,  and 
Garfield  laid  down  in  his  boots,  in  a  wretched  log  hut,  to  catch 
a  few  hours  of  slumber.  About  midnight  he  was  roused  from 
sleep  by  a  man  who  said  his  business  was  urgent.  He  rub- 
bed his  ej^es  and  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  Back  safe  ?  "  he  asked.     '•  Have  you  seen  Cranor  ?  " 

"Yes,  colonel;  he  can't  be  more  than  two  days  behind 
me." 

"  God  bless  you,  Jordan  !  You  have  done  us  great  service," 
said  Garfield,  warmly. 

"  I  thank  you,  colonel,"  answered  Jordan,  liis  voice  trem- 
bling ;  "  that  is  more  pay  than  I  expected." 

He  had  returned  safely ;  .but  the  Providence  which  so  won- 
derfully guarded  his  way  out,  seemed  to  leave  him  to  find  his 
way  back ;  for,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  The  Lord  cared  more  for 
the  despatch  than  He  cared  for  me ;  and  it  was  natural  He 
should,  because  my  life  only  counts  one,  but  the  despatch,  it 
stood  for  the  whole  of  Kentucky." 


A     51  A  K  C  H     IN     .MID-  W  I  N  T  K  R  .  249 

Be  that  as  it  may,  liis  road  was  a  hard  one  to  travel.  The 
same  gang  which  followed  hiin  out  waj'laid  him  back,  and 
one  stormy  midnight  he  fell  among  them.  They  lined  the 
road  forty  deep,  and,  seeing  he  could  not  run  the  gauntlet,  he 
wheeled  his  mare  and  fled  backward.  The  noble  beast  did 
her  part,  but  a  bullet  struck  her,  and  she  fell  in  the  road  dis- 
abled. Then  —  it  was  Hobson's  choice  —  he  took  to  his 
legs,  and,  leaping  a  fence  into  a  wood  undergrown  ^\•itll  thick 
laurels,  was  at  last  out  of  danger. 

For  two  days  and^  nights  he  lay  there,  not  daring  to  come 
out ;  but  hunger  finally  forced  him  to  ask  food  at  a  negro 
shanty.  The  dusky  patriot  loaded  him  with  bacon,  brown 
bread,  and  blessings,  and  at  night  piloted  him  to  a  rebel 
barn,  where  he  found  his  own  mare,  wounded,  but  still  fit  for 
service. 

With  her  he  set  out  again,  and  after  various  adventures 
and  hair-breadth  escapes,  too  numerous  to  mention  and  too 
incredible  to  believe,  had  not  similar  events  occurred  all 
through  the  war,  he  reached  in  safety,  that  rainy  midnight, 
the  little  army  encamped  seven  miles  north  of  Paintville. 

In  the  morning  another  horseman  rode  up  to  the  Union 
head-quarters.  He  was  a  messenger  direct  fi-om  General 
Buell,  who  had  followed  Garfield  up  the  Big  Sandy,  with 
despatches.  They  contained  only  a  few  hurried  sentences 
from  a  man  to  a  woman,  but  their  value  was  not  to  be  esti- 
mated in  money.  It  was  a  letter  from  INIarshall  to  his  wife, 
which  Buell  had  intercepted,  and  it  revealed  the  important 
fact  that  the  rebel  general  had  five  thousand  meu,  — forty-four 
hundred   infantry  and   six   hundred   cavalry,  —  witli    twelve 


260  ON     THE     BORDER. 

pieces  of  artillery,  and  was  daily  expecting  an  attack  from  a. 
Union  force  of  ten  thousand ! 

Garfield  put  the  letter  in  his  po(iket,  and  then  called  a 
council  of  his  officers.  They  assembled  in  the  rude  log  shanty, 
and  the  question  was  put  to  them,  — 

"Shall  we  march  at  once,  or  wait  the  coming  of  Cranor?" 

All  but  one  said,  "  Wait."  He  said,  "  Move  at  once.  Our 
fourteen  hundred  can  whip  ten  thousand  rebels." 

Garfield  reflected  awhile  ;  then  closed  the  council  with  the 
laconic  remark,  — 

"  Well,  forward  it  is.     Give  the  order." 

Three  roads  led  to  the  rebel  position  :  —  one  at  the  east,  bear- 
ing down  to  the  river  and  along  its  western  bank ;  another,  a 
circuitous  one,  to  the  west,  coming  in  on  Paint  Creek,  at  the 
mouth  of  Jenny's  Creek,  on  the  right  of  the  village ;  and  a 
third  between  the  two  others,  a  more  direct  route,  but  climb- 
ing a  succession  of  almost  impassable  ridges.  These  three 
roads  were  held  by  strong  rebel  pickets,  and  a  regiment  was 
outlying  at  the  village  of  Paintville. 

The  diagram  on  the  opposite  page  will  show  the  situation. 

To  deceive  Marshall  as  to  his  real  strength  and  designs, 
Garfield  orders  a  small  force  of  infantry  and  cavalry  to  ad- 
vance along  the  river  road,  drive  in  the  rebel  pickets,  and 
move  rapidly  after  them,  as  if  to  attack  Paintville.  Two 
hours  after  this  small  force  goes  ofi",  a  similar  one,  with  the 
same  orders,  sets  off  on  the  road  to  the  westward ;  and  two 
hours  later  still,  another  small  body  takes  the  middle  road. 
The  effect  is,  that  the  pickets  on  the  first  route,  being  vig- 
orously attacked  and  driven,  retreat  in  confusion  to  Paint- 
ville, and  despatch  word  to  Marshall  that  the  Union  army  is 


(251) 


252  ON     THE     BORDER. 

advancing  along  tlie  river.  He  hurries  off  a  thousand  in- 
fantry and  a  battery  to  resist  the  advance  of  this  imaginary 
column. 

When  this  detachment  has  been  gone  an  hour  and  a  hal^ 
Marshall  hears,  from  the  routed  pickets  on  his  left,  that  the 
Union  forces  are  advancing  along  the  western  road.  Coun- 
termanding his  first  order,  he  now  directs  the  thousand  men 
and  the  battery  to  check  the  new  danger;  and  hurries  off  the 
troops  at  Paintville  to  the  mouth  of  Jenny's  creek  to  make  a 
stand  at  that  point.  Two  hours  later  the  pickets  on  the  cen- 
tral route  are  driven  in,  and,  finding  Paintville  abandoned, 
they  flee  precipitately  to  the  fortified  camp,  with  the  story 
that  the  whole  Union  army  is  close  at  their  heels,  and  al- 
ready occupying  the  town.  Conceiving  that  he  has  thus  lost 
Paintville,  Marshall  hastily  withdraws  the  detachment  of  a 
thousand  to  his  camp ;  and,  then  Garfield,  moving  rapidly 
over  the  ridges  of  the  central  route,  occupies  the  abandoned 
position. 

So  affairs  stand  on  the  evening  of  the  eighth  of  January, 
when  a  rebel  spy  enters  the  camp  of  Marshall  with  tidings 
that  Cranor,  with  thirty-three  hundred  (?)  men,  is  within 
twelve  hours'  march  at  the  westward. 

On  receipt  of  these  tidings  the  rebel  general,  conceiving 
himself  vastly  outnumbered,  breaks  up  his  camp,  —  which  he 
might  have  held  for  a  twelvemonth,  —  and  retreats  precipi- 
tately, abandoning  or  burning  a  large  portion  of  his  supplies. 
Seeing  the  fires,  Garfield  mounts  his  horse,  and,  with  a  thou- 
isand  men,  enters  the  desefted  camp  at  nine  in  the  evening, 
while  the  blazing  stores  are  yet  unconsumed.  He  sends  off  a 
detachment  to  harass  the  rebel  retreat,  and  waits  the  arrival 


A     MARCH     IN     M  I  D  -  W  I  N  T  E  R  .  253 

of  Cranor,  witli  whom  he  means  to  follow,  and  bring  Mar- 
shall to  battle  in  the  morning. 

In  the  morning  Cranor  comes  ;  but  his  men  are  footsore, 
without  rations,  and  completely  exhausted.  The  most  of 
them  cannot  move  one  leg  after  the  other.  But  the  Union 
commander  is  determined  on  a  battle,  so  every  man  who  has 
strengtli  to  march  is  ordered  to  come  forward.  Eleven  hun- 
dred —  among  them  four  hundred  of  Cranor's  tired  heroes 
—  step  from  the  ranks,  and  with  them,  at  noon  of  the  ninth, 
Garfield  sets  out  for  Prestonburg,  sending  all  his  available 
cavalry  to  follow  the  line  of  the  enemy's  retreat,  and  harass 
and  destroy  him. 

Marching  eighteen  miles,  he  reaches,  at  nine  o'clock  that 
night,  the  mouth  of  Abbott's  Creek,  three  miles  below  Pres- 
tonburg, —  he  and  the  eleven  hundred.  There  he  learns  that 
Marshall  is  encamped  on  the  same  stream,  three  miles  higher 
up ;  and  throwing  his  men  into  bivouac,  in  the  midst  of  a 
sleety  rain,  he  sends  back  an  order  to  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Sheldon,  who  has  been  left  in  command  at  Paintville,  to  bring 
up  every  available  man,  with  all  possible  despatch,  for  he 
shall  force  the  enemy  to  battle  in  the  morning.  He  spends 
the  night  in  learning  the  character  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
try, and  the  disposition  of  Marshall's  forces ;  and  then  again 
Jordan  comes  into  action. 

A  dozen  rebels  are  grinding  at  a  mill,  and  a  dozen  honest 
men  come  upon  them,  steal  their  corn,  and  take  them  prison- 
ers. The  miller  is  a  tall,  gaunt  man,  and  his  '•  butternuts  " 
fit  Jordan  as  if  they  were  made  for  him.  He  is  a  rebel,  too, 
and  his  very  raiment  should  bear  witness  against  this  feeding 
of  his  enemies.     It  does.     It  goes  back  to  the  rebel  camp. 


254  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  i:  R  . 

and  Jordan  goes  in  it.  That  chameleon  face  of  liis  is  smeared 
with  meal,  and  looks  the  miller  so  well  that  the  miller's  own 
wife  might  not  detect  the  difference.  The  night  is  dark  and 
rainy,  and  that  lessens  his  danger;  but  still  Jordan  is  pick- 
ing his  teeth  in  the  very  jaws  of  the  lion. 

Jordan's  midnight  ramble  in  the  rebel  ranks  gave  Garfield 
the  exact  position  of  the  enemy.  They  had  made  a  stand, 
and  laid  an  ambuscade  for  him.  Strongly  posted  on  a  semi- 
circular hill,  at  the  forks  of  Middle  Creek,  on  both  sides  of 
the  road,  with  cannon  commanding  its  whole  length,  and  hidden 
by  the  trees  and  underbrush,  they  were  awaiting  his  coming. 

Deeming  it  unsafe  to  proceed  further  in  the  darkness,  Gar- 
field, as  has  been  said,  ordered  his  army  into  bivouac  at  nine 
in  the  evening,  and  climbing  a  steep  ridge,  called  Abbott's 
Hill,  his  tired  men  threw  themselves  upon  the  wet  ground 
to  wait  for  the  morning.  It  was  a  terrible  night,  —  a  fit  prel- 
ude to  the  terrible  day  that  followed.  A  dense  fog  shut  out 
the  moon  and  stars,  and  shrouded  the  lonely  mountain  in 
almost  Cimmerian  darkness.  A  cold  wind  swept  from  the 
north,  driving  the  rain  in  blinding  gusts  into  the  faces  of  the 
shivering  men,  and  stirring  the  dark  pines  into  a  mournful 
music.  Biit  the  slow  and  cheerless  night  at  last  wore  away, 
and  at  four  in  the  morning  the  tired  and  hungry  men,  their 
icy  clothing  clinging  to  their  half-ffozen  limbs,  were  roused 
from  their  cold  beds,  and  ordered  to  move  forward.  Slowly 
and  cautiously  they  descended  into  the  valley,  feeling,  at  every 
step,  for  the  enemy. 

About  daybreak,  while  rounding  a  hill  which  jutted  out 
into  the  valley,  the  advance  guard  was  charged  upon  by 
a  body  of   rebel  horsemen.     Forming  his  men  in   a  hollow 


A     MARCH     IN     31  I  D  -  W  I  \  T  E  R  .  255 

square,  Garfield  gave  the  rebels  a  volley,  that  sent  them  reel- 
ing up  the  valley,  —  all  but  one  ;  and  he,  with  his  horse, 
plunged  into  the  stream,  and  was  captured. 

The  main  body  of  the  enemy,  it  now  was  evident,  was  not 
far  distant ;  but  whether  he  had  changed  his  position  since 
the  visit  of  Jordan  was  yet  uncertain.  To  determine  this, 
Garfield  sent  forward  a  strong  corps  of  skirmishers,  who 
swept  the  cavalry  from  a  ridge  which  they  had  occupied, 
and,  moving  forward,  soon  drew  the  fire  of  the  hidden  rebels. 
Suddenly  a  puff  of  smoke  rose  from  beyond  the  hill,  and  a 
twelve-pound  shell  whistled  above  the  trees,  then  ploughed  up 
the  hill,'  and  buried  itself  in  the  ground  at  the  very  feet  of  the 
adventurous  little  band  of  skirmishers. 

It  was  now  twelve  o'clock,  and,  throwing  his  whole  force 
upon  the  ridge  whence  the  rebel  cavalry  had  been  driven, 
Garfield  prepared  for  the  impending  battle.  It  was  a  trying 
and  perilous  moment.  He  was  in  presence  of  a  greatly  su- 
perior enemy,  and  how  to  dispose  his  little  force,  and  where 
first  to  attack,  were  things  not  easy  to  determine.  But  he 
lost  no  time  in  idle  indecision. 

Looking  in  the  faces  of  bis  eleven  hundred,  he  went  at 
once  into  the  terrible  struggle.  His  mounted  escort  of  twelve 
men  he  sent  forward  to  make  a  charge,  and,  if  possible,  to 
draw  the  fire  of  the  enemy.  The  ruse  worked  admirably.  As 
the  little  squad  swept  round  a  curve  in  the  road,  another 
shell  whistled  through  the  valle}^,  and  the  long  roll  of  nearly 
five  thousand  muskets  chimed  in  with  a  fierce  salutation.  Then 
began  the  battle. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


A  BATTLE. 


T  was  a  wonderful  battle.  In  the  history  of  the  late 
war  there  is  not  another  like  it.  ^Measured  by  the 
forces  engaged,  the  valor  displayed,  and  the  results 
tliat  followed,  it  throws  into  the  shade  the  achieve- 
ments of  even  the  mighty  hosts  which  saved  the  nation. 
Eleven  hundred  footsore  and  weary  men,  without  cannon, 
charged  up  a  rockj'-  hill,  over  stumps,  over  stones,  over  fallen 
trees,  over  high  intrenchments,  right  into  the  face  of  five 
thousand  fresh  troops,  with  twelve  pieces  of  artillery  ! 

A  glance  at  the  ground  will  best  show  the  real  nature  of 
the  conflict.  It  was  on  the  margin  of  Middle  Creek,  a  nar- 
row and  rapid  stream,  and  three  miles  from  where  it  finds  its 
way  into  the  Big  Sandy,  through  the  sharp  sj^urs  of  the  Cum- 
berland mountains.  A  rocky  road,  not  ten  feet  in  width, 
winds  along  this  stream,  and  on  its  two  banks  abrupt  ridges, 
with  steep  and  rocky  sides,  overgrown  with  trees  and  under- 
brush, shut  closely  down  upon  the  road  and  the  little  stream- 
let. At  twelve  O'clock  Garfield  had  gained  the  crest  of  the 
ridge  at  the  right  of  the  road,  and  the  charge  of  his  handful 
of  horsemen  had  drawn  Marshall's  fire,  and  disclosed  his 
actual  position.  It  will  be  clearly  seen  from  the  subjoined 
diagram. 

(256) 


Battle  of  Middle  Creek. 


(257) 


258  ONTHEBORDEK. 

The  main  force  of  the  rebels  occupied  the  crests  of  the  two 
ridges,  at  the  left  of  the  stream,  but  a  strong  detachment  was 
posted  on  the  right,  and  a  battery  of  twelve  pieces  held  the 
forks  of  ilie  creek  and  commanded  the  approach  of  the  Un- 
ion army.  It  w^as  Marshall's  plan  to  lure  Garfield  along  the 
road,  and  then,  taking  him  between  two  enfilading  fires,  to 
surround  and  utterly  destroy  him.  But  his  hasty  fire  be- 
trayed his  design  and  unmasked  his  entire  position. 

Garfield  acted  with  promptness  and  decision.  A  hundred 
undergraduates,  recruited  from  his  own  college,  were  ordered 
to  cross  the  stream,  climb  the  ridge  whence  the  fire  had  been 
hottest,  and  bring  on  the  battle. 

Boldly  the  little  band  plunge  into  the  creek,  the  icy  water 
up  to  their  waists,  and,  clinging  to  the  trees  and  underbrush, 
climb  the  rocky  ascent.  Half-way  up  the  ridge,  the  fire  of 
at  least  two  thousand  rifles  opens  upon  them,  but,  springing 
from  tree  to  tree,  they  press  on,  and  at  last  reach  the  summit. 
Then  suddenly  the  hill  is  gray  -«4th  rebels,  who,  rising  from 
ambush,  pour  their  deadly  volleys  into  the  little  band  of  only 
one  hundred.  For  a  moment  they  waver,  but  their  leader 
calls  out,  "  Every  man  to  a  tree  !  Give  them  as  good  as  they 
send,  my  brave  Bereans  !  " 

The  rebels,  behind  rocks  and  a  rude  intrenchment,  are 
obliged  to  expose  their  heads  to  take  aim  at  the  advancing 
column,  but  the  Union  troops,  posted  behind  the  huge  oaks 
and  maples,  can  stand  erect,  and  load  and  fire,  fully  protected. 
Though  they  are  outnumbered  ten  to  one,  the  contest  is, 
therefore,  for  a  time,  not  so  very  unequal. 

But  soon  the  rebels,  exasperated  with  the  obstinate  resist- 
ance,  rush  from  cover,  and  charge  upon  the  little   handful 


A     BATTLE.  259 

with  the  bayonet.  SloNvly  they  are  driven  down  the  hill,  and 
two  of  them  fall  to  the  ground  wounded.  One  never  rises ; 
the  other  —  a  lad  of  only  eighteen — is  shot  through  the 
thigh,  and  one  of  his  comrades  turns  back  to  bear  him  to  a 
place  of  safety.  The  advancing  rebels  are  within  thirty  feet, 
when  one  of  them  fires,  and  his  bullet  strikes  a  tree  directly 
above  the  head  of  the  Union  soldier.  He  turns,  levels  his 
musket,  and  the  rebel  is  in  eternity.  Then  the  rest  are  upon 
him ;  but,  zigzagging  from  tree  to  tree,  he  is  soon  with  his 
driven  column.  But  not  far  are  the  brave  boys  driven.  A 
few  rods  lower  down  they  hear  again  the  voice  of  their 
leader. 

"  To  the  trees  again,  my  boys  !  "  he  cries.  "  We  may  as 
well  die  here  as  in  Ohio." 

To  the  trees  they  go,  and  in  a  moment  the  advancing 
horde  is  checked,  and  then  rolled  backward.  Up  the  hill 
they  turn,  firing  as  they  go,  and  the  little  band  follows. 
Soon  the  rebels  reach  the  spot  where  the  Berean  boy  lies 
wounded,  and  one  of  them  says  to  him,  — 

"  Boy,  guv  me  yer  musket." 

^'  jS^ot  the  gun,  but  its  contents,"  cries  the  boy ;  and  the 
rebel  falls  mortally  wounded.  Another  raises  his  weapon  to 
brain  the  prostrate  lad ;  but  he,  too,  falls,  killed  with  his  com- 
rade's own  rifle.  And  all  this  is  done  while  the  hero-boy  is 
on  the  ground,  bleeding.  An  hour  afterwards  his  comrades 
bear  him  to  a  sheltered  spot  on  the  other  side  of  the  streamlet, 
and  then  the  first  word  of  complaint  escapes  him.  As  they 
are  taking  off  his  leg,  he  says,  in  his  agony,  — 

"  Oh,  what  will  mother  do  ?  " 

A  fortnight  later  his  words,  repeated  in  the  Senate  of  Ohio, 


260  ON     THE     BORDER. 

rouse  the  noble  State  to  at  once  make  provision  for  the  widows 
and  mothers  of  its  soldiers.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  be 
now  dead  or  living;  but  his  name  at  least  should  not  be  for- 
gotten.    It  was  Charles  Carlton,  of  Franklin,  Oliio. 

Meanwhile,  Jordan  is  standing  by  the  side  of  the  Union 
commander,  upon  a  rocky  height  on  the  other  side  of  the 
narrow  valley,  and  his  quick  eye  has  discerned,  through  the 
densely-curling  smoke,  the  real  state  of  the  unequal  contest. 

"  They  are  being  driven,"  he  saj's.  "  They  will  lose  the 
hill,  if  they  are  not  supported." 

Instantly  five  hundred  of  the  Ohio  Fortieth  and  Forty- 
second,  under  Major  Pardee  and  Colonel  Cranor,  are  ordered 
to  the  rescue.  Holding  their  cartridge-boxes  above  their 
heads,  they  dash  into  the  stream,  up  the  hill,  and  into  the 
fight,  shouting,  — 

"  Hurra  for  Williams  and  the  brave  Bereans ! " 

But  shot  and  shell  and  canister  and  the  fire  of  four  thou- 
sand muskets  are  now  concentrated  upon  the  few  hundred 
heroes. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  cries  Garfield.  "  Who  will  volunteer 
to  carry  the  crest  of  the  other  mountain  ?  " 

"  We  will !  "  shouts  Colonel  Monroe,  of  the  Twentj^-second 
Kentucky.     "  We  know  every  inch  of  the  ground." 

"  Go  in,  then,"  cries  Garfield,  "  and  give  them  Hail  Colum- 
bia." 

Jordan  goes  with  this  second  column.  Fording  the  stream 
lower  down,  they  climb  the  ridge  at  the  left,  and  in  ten 
minutes  are  upon  the  enemy.  Like  the  others,  these  rebels 
are  posted  behintl  rocks,  and  their  uncovered  heads  soon  be- 
come ghastly  targets  for  the  unerring  Kentucky  rifles. 


A     BATTLE. 


261 


"  Take  good  aim,  and  don't  shoot  till  you  see  the  eyes  of 
3^our  enemy,"  shouts  the  brave  colonel. 

The  men  have  never  been  under  fire,  but  in  a  few  moments 
are  as  cool  as  if  shooting  at  a  turkey-match. 

"  Do  you  see  that  reb  ?  "  says  one  to  a  comrade,  as  a  head 
appears  above  a  rock.     "  Hit  him  while  I'm  loading." 

Another  is  bringing  his  cartridge  to  his  mouth,  when  a 
bullet  cuts  away  the  powder,  and  leaves  the  lead  in  his  fingers. 
Shielding  his  arm  with  his  body,  he  says,  as  he  turns  from 
the  foe  and  rams  home  another  cartridge,  — 

"  There  !  see  if  you  can  hit  that !  " 

Another  iakes  out  a  piece  of  hard  tack,  and  a  ball  shivers 
it  in  his  hand.  He  swallows  the  remnant,  and  then  coolly 
fires  away  again.  One  is  brought  down  by  a  ball  in  the 
knee,  and,  lying  on  the  ground,  rifle  in  hand,  watches  for  the 
man  who  shot  him.  Soon  the  rebel's  head  rises  above  a  rock, 
and  the  two  fire  at  the  same  instant.  The  loyal  man  is  struck 
in  the  mouth ;  but,  as  he  is  borne  down  the  hill,  he  splutters 
out,  — 

"  Xever  mind ;  that  Secesh  is  done  for." 

The  next  morning  the  rebel  is  found  with  the  whole  upper 
part  of  his  head  shot  away  by  the  other's  bullet. 

The  brave  Kentuckians  climb  or  leap  up  along  the  side  of 
the  mountain.  Kow  they  are  hidden  in  the  underbrush,  now 
sheltered  by  the  great  trees,  and  now  fully  exposed  in  some 
narrow  opening ;  but  gradually  the}^  near  the  crest  of  the 
ridge,  and  at  last  are  at  its  very  summit. 

Then  comes  a  terrible  hand-to-hand  struggle,  and  the  little 
band  of  less  than  four  hundred,  overpowered  by  numbers,  are 
driven  far  down  the  mountain. 


262  ON     THE     BOKDEK. 

A  ball  pierces  Jordan's  hat,  three  go  through  his  clothing, 
but  he  is  uninjured. 

Soon  the  men  rally,  and,  as  they  turn,  a  bullet  grazes  Jor- 
dan's side,  and  buries  itself  in  the  breast  of  a  man  whom  he 
has  seen  send  five  rebels  to  the  great  accounting.  Blood  will 
have  blood,  and  so  he,  too,  goes  to  the  judgment ! 

Meanwhile,  another  cannon  has  opened  on  the  hill,  and 
round  shot  and  canister  fall  thickly  among  the. weary  eleven 
hundred.  Seeing  his  advance  about  to  waver,  the  Union 
commander  sends  volley  after  volley  from  his  entire  reserve, 
at  the  central  point,  between  his  two  detachments,  and  for  a 
time  the  enemy's  fire  is  silenced  in  that  quarter.  But  soon  it 
opens  again,  and  then  Garfield  orders  all,  but  a  chosen  hun- 
dred, upon  the  mountain.  Then  the  battle  grows  terrible. 
Thick  and  thicker  swarm  the  rebels  on  the  crest;  sharp 
and  sharper  rolls  the  musketry  along  the  valley,  and,  as  vol- 
ley after  volley  echoes  among  the  hills,  and  the  white  smoke 
curls  up  in  long  wreaths  from  the  gleaming  rifles,  a  dense 
cloud  gathers  overhead,  as  if  to  shut  out  this  scene  of  carnage 
from  the  very  eye  of  Heaven. 

So  the  bloody  work  goes  on,  so  the  battle  wavers,  till  the 
setting  sun,  wheeling  below  the  hills,  glances  along  the  dense 
lines  of  rebel  steel  moving  down  to  envelop  the  weary  eleven 
hundred.  It  is  an  awful  moment,  big  with  the  fate  of  Ken- 
tucky. At  its  very  crisis  two  figures  stand  out  against  the 
fading  sky,  boldly  defined  in  the  foreground. 

One  is  in  Union  blue.  With  a  little  band  of  heroes  about 
him,  he  is  posted  on  a  projecting  rock,  which  is  scarred  with 
bullets,  and  in  full  view  of  both  armies.  His  head  is  uncov- 
ered, his  hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  his  face  upturned  in  the 


A     BATTLE.  263 

darkening  daylight,  and  from  his  soul  is  going  up  a  prayer, 

a  prayer  for  Sheldon  and  reinforcements.     He  turns  his  eyes 
to  the  northward,  and  his  lip  tightens,  and  he  throws  off  his 
coat,  and  says  to  his  hundred  men,  — 
"  Boys,  we  must  go  at  them." 

The  other  is  in  Rebel  gray.  Moving  out  to  the  brow  of  the 
opposite  hill,  and  placing  a  glass  to  his  eye,  he,  too,  takes  a 
long  look  to  th§  northward.  He  starts,  for  he  sees  something 
which  the  other,  on  lower  ground,  does  not  distinguish.  Soon 
he  wheels  his  horse,  and  the  word  "Eetreat"  echoes  along 
the  valley  between  them.  It  is  his  last  word ;  for  six  rifles 
crack,  and  the  rebel  major  lies  on  the  ground,  quivering. 
The  one  in  blue  looks  to  the  north  again,  and  now,  floating 
proudly  among  the  trees,  he  sees  the  starry  banner.  It  is 
Sheldon  and  his  forces !  Jordan's  perilous  ride  is  at  last  do- 
ing its  work  for  the  nation.  On  they  come,  like  the  rushing 
wind,  filling  the  air  with  their  shouting.  The  rescued  eleven 
hundred  take  up  the  strain,  and  then,  above  the  swift  pursuit, 
above  the  lessening  conflict,  above  the  last  boom  of  the  wheel- 
ing cannon,  goes  up  the  wild  huzza  of  Victory. 

As  they  come  back  from  the  short  pursuit,  the  young  com- 
mander grasps  man  after  man  by  the  hand,  and  says, 

"  God  bless  you,  boys  !  you  have  saved  Kentucky." 

Wliile  war  is  the  greatest  of  earthly  enormities,  it  is  strange 
the  interest  which  a  battle-field  always  awakens.  We  go 
over  the  ground,  marking  the  spot  where  occurred  some  fear- 
ful struggle,  or  where  some  noble  regiment  went  down  to  a 
swift  destruction,  and  we  do  not  see  the  pallid  faces  of  the 
dead,  or  hear  the  moans  of  the  wounded.     But  this  is  when 


264  ON     THE     BOKDEK. 

the  grass  has  grown  green,  and  the  smoke  has  cleared  away, 
letting  in  the  light  of  heaven.  But  when  the  ground  is  red, 
when  the  unburied  dead  lie  in  heaps,  and  the  wounded  are 
stretched  around  on  the  trodden  grass,  rending  the  air  with 
cries  for  succor,  then  it  is  that  we  realize  the  real  horrors  of 
till!  battle-field.  It  was  thus  that  Jordan  saw  it  when,  with  a 
water-bucket  on  his  arm,  he  walked  slowly  along  the  moun- 
tain-side, on  the  evening  of  this  fearful  conflict.  Twenty- 
seven  rebel  dead  lay  unburied  on  the  ground,  and  sixty  more, 
hastily  thrown  together,  and  only  loosely  covered  with  a  few- 
leaves  and  underbrush,  were  at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine.  Lean- 
ing against  a  tree  was  a  fair-haired  youth,  his  hands  clasped 
across  his  knees,  and  his  head  slightly  bent  forward.  His 
face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  bright  in  the  moon- 
light. Baring  his  breast  to  stanch  the  still-flowing  blood, 
Jordan  spoke  to  him  gently.  The  eyes  looked  out  in  a  mute 
appeal,  but  the  still  lips  gave  no  answer.  AVith  him  the  bat- 
tle of  life  was  over  forever. 

A  little  farther  on  five  dead  and  one  wounded  lay  behind  a 
rock,  two  of  the  dead  fallen  across  the  living.  The  living 
man's  leg  was  shattered,  but  his  wound  was  not  mortal. 

"  You  must  be  in  great  pain,  —  can  I  do  anything  for 
you  ?  "  asked  Jordan. 

"There  are  others  worse  off,"  said  the  man;  "tend  to 
them  ;  then  you  may  look  after  me." 

Moving  the  dead  from  his  crushed  limb,  Jordan  went  for- 
ward. 

One  had  received  a  ball  through  the  neck,  which  destroyed 
the  power  of  speech,  and  he  made  frantic  signs  for  water  ; 
another,  a  dark-hued  man,  was  lying  under  a  tree,  his  thigh 


A     BATTLE.  265 

broken.     He  was  stern  and  morose,  asking  only  one  thing,  — 
that  Jordan  would  kill  him.     Jordan  said,  kindly, — 

"  You  will  soon  be   taken   to  a   surgeon  ;    he   will  relieve 

you." 

Then  the  man  faltered  out.  "  I  thank  you." 

An  old  man  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  stump,  with  a  ball  directly 
through  the  base  of  his  brain.  A  ghastly  smile  was  on  his 
face,  his  eyes  looked  wildly  out  upon  the  night,  and  his  breath 
was  rapid  and  heavy.  He  was  a  breathing  corpse,  —  dead 
and  yet  living. 

The  atmosphere  of  death  was  on  the  earth ;  it  was  a  scene 
on  which  one  needs  look  but  once  to  remember  it  forever. 
23 


CHAPTER    XX. 


BE  AD  LEY  FyROWN   AGAIN. 


'XOTHER  night  on  the   frozen   ground,  and,  during 


it,    the  Union   commander    pondered   the    situation. 

Marshall's    forces    were     broken    and    demoralized. 

Though  in  full  retreat,  they  might  be  overtaken  and 
destroyed  ;  but  his  own  troops  were  half  dead  with  fatigue 
and  exposure,  and  had  less  than  three  days'  rations.  In 
these  circumstances  Garfield  prudently  decided  to  occupy 
Prestonburg,  and  await  the  arrival  of  additional  supplies 
before  dealing  a  final  blow  at  the  enemy. 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  battle,  he  issued  the  following 
address  to  his  army,  which  tells,  in  brief,  the  story  of  the 
campaign :  — 

"  Soldiers  of  the  Eighteenth  Brigade,  —  I  am  proud  of  you 
all !  In  four  vreeks  you  have  marched,  some  eighty  and  some 
a  hundred  miles,  over  almost  impassable  roads.  One  night  in 
four  you  have  slept,  often  in  the  storm,  with  only  a  wintry 
sky  above  your  heads.  You  have  marched  in  the  face  of  a 
foe  of  more  than  double  your  number,  led  on  by  chiefs  who 
have  won  a  national  renown  under  the  old  flag,  entrenched  in 
hiUs  of  his  own  choosing,  and  strengthened  by  all  the  appli- 
ances of  military  art.     With  no  experience  but  the  conscious- 

(266) 


BRAD  L  E  Y     IJ  II  ()  ^y  N     A  < ;  A  I  N  .  267 

ness  of  your  own  manhood,  you  have  driven  him  from  his 
strongholds,  jnirsued  his  inglorious  flight,  and  compelled  him 
to  meet  you  in  battle.  When  forced  to  fight,  he  sought  the 
shelter  of  rocks  and  hills.  You  drove  him  from  his  position, 
leaving  scores  of  his  bloody  dead  unburied.  His  artillery 
thundered  against  you,  but  you  compelled  him  to  flee  by  the 
light  of  his  burning  stores,  and  to  leave  even  the  banner  of 
his  rebellion  behind  him.  I  greet  you  as  brave  men.  Our 
common  counby  will  not  forget  you.  She  will  not  forget  the 
sacred  dead  who  fell  beside  you,  nor  those  of  your  comrades 
who  won  scars  of  honor  on  the  field. 

"  I  have  recalled  you  from  the  pursuit  that  you  may  regain 
vigor  for  still  greater  exertions.  Let  no  one  tarnish  his  well- 
earned  honor  by  any  act  unworthy  an  American  soldier. 
Remember  your  duties  as  American  citizens,  and  sacredly 
respect  the  rights  and  property  of  those  with  whom  you  may 
come  in  contact.  Let  it  not  be  said  that  good  men  dread 
the  approach  of  an  American  army. 

"  Officers  and  soldiers,  your  duty  has  been  nobly  done. 
For  this  I  thank  you." 

Meanwhile  Bradley  Brown  had  not  been  idle.  Making 
his  way  back  to  Marshall's  camp,  he  had  filled  the  ears  of 
that  officer  with  exaggerated  accounts  of  the  strength  of  the 
Union  forces,  an^d  thus  materially  aided  in  the  success  of 
the  expedition.  It  was  wonderful  that  his  double-dealing 
was  not  suspected,  for  three  days  before  the  battle  Marshall 
had  intercepted  a  despatch  passing  between  Garfield  and 
Colonel  Cranor,  which  disclosed  the  fact  that  the  Union  com- 
mander was  fully  informed  of  the  strength  and  disposition  of 


268  ox     THE     BORDER. 

the  rebel  forces,  and  had  thoroughly  mapped  all  the  roads, 
hills,  streams,  and  fortifications  in  and  around  his  position. 

"How  he  got  the  facts,"  said  Marshall  to  the  rebel  Colonel 
Gregg,  "  I  cannot  tell ;  but  we  are  certainly  outnumbered 
and  outgeneralled." 

Hearing,  while  yet  at  Paint^dlle,  of  the  rapid  approach  of 
Cranor  from  the  westward,  Marshall,  a  few  days  before  the 
battle,  despatched  Brown  to  learn  his  strength  and  the  route 
by  which  he  was  advancing. 

This  was  welcome  work  to  the  ex-boatman,  for  the  near- 
ness of  the  Union  forces  made  it  daily  more  and  more  likely 
that  his  false  reports  would  soon  be  sifted,  and  his  head 
had  begun  to  feel  uneasy  on  his  shoulders.  He  set  out  with 
alacrity,  and  at  the  end  of  two  days  rode  boldly  up  to  the 
lines  of  Cranor,  and  demanded  to  see  the  "  gineral."  Being 
led  into  the  j)resence  of  that  officer,  Brown  disclosed  his 
name  and  the  ostensible  object  of  his  visit,  but  was  astonished 
to  find  that  his  tale  was  met  with  a  cautious  incredulity. 

Either  his  appearance,  or  the  improbability  of  the  exploit 
of  which  he  boasted,  impressed  Colonel  Cranor  unfavorably. 
He  ordered  him  into  close  custody,  and  in  vain  Brown 
affirmed  and  reaffirmed  that  he  knew  Garfield  when  a  boy, 
and  that  his  old  love  for  him  had  led  him  to  run  the  risk  of  a 
halter.  Cranor  was  not  to  be  convinced,  and  Brown  was 
made  to  march  to  Paintville,  strapped  upon  the  back  of  his 
own  confiscated  horse,  and  with  an  armed  cavalryman  at 
his  either  elbow. 

Arriving  at  the  village  in  the  early  gray  of  the  winter 
morning,  the  weary  column  was  met  by  the  Union  com- 
mander.    When  the  cheering  which  greeted  him  had  some- 


BRADLEY     BROWN     AGAIN.  269 

what  subsided,  a  voice  was  heard  to  shout  from  the 
ranks,  — 

"  Gineral  —  Gineral  Jim,  tell  that  skeery  cunnel  that  Brad. 
Brown  ar*  as  true  a  man  as  he  ar'." 

Gartield  tunied  his  eyes  toward  the  speaker,  and,  taking  in 
at  a  glance  the  circumstances,  ordered  him  to  be  set  at  lib- 
erty. When  his  cords  were  unloosed,  Brown  rode  coolly  up 
to  the  two  officers,  and  said  to  Cranor,  with  an  air  of  intense 
disdain,  — 

"  Another  time,  p'raps,  ye'll  tuck  the  word  of  a  gentleman ! 
Didn't  I  tell  ye  I  knowed  him,  —  knowed  liim  ever  sence  he 
war  a  boy  ?  " 

He  bore  himself  bravely  in  the  battle,  and,  when  it  was 
over,  again  did  important  service  to  the  little  army.  The 
men,  as  has  been  said,  had  less  than  three  days'  rations,  and 
supplies  must  be  at  once  brought  iTp  from  Louisa,  where  a 
depot  had  been  established. 

The  rainy  season  had  set  in,  and  the  roads  had  become  im- 
passable for  any  but  horsemen.  The  river  was  the  only 
resource  ;  but  the  Big  Sandy  was  then  swollen  beyond  its 
banks,  and  its  rapid  current,  filled  with  floating  logs  and 
uptorn  trees,  rendered  navigation  a  thing  of  great  danger 
and  difficulty.  The  oldest  boatmen  of  the  district  shook  their 
heads,  and  refused  to  attempt  the  perilous  voyage.  But 
Brown  said  to  Garfield,  — 

"  It's  which  and  t'other,  Gineral  Jim  ;  starvin'  or  drownin'. 
I'd  ruther  drown  nur  starve.  So  guv  the  word,  and,  dead  or 
alive,  I'll  git  down  the  river." 

Garfield  gave  the  word,  and  within  four  days  the  hearts  of 
the  little  army  were  gladdened  with  full  rations. 

23* 


CHAPTER     XXI 


RETRIBUTION. 


STATE  of  general  alarm  existed  throughout  the 
district.  The  retreating  rebels  had  spread  the  most 
exaggerated  reports  of  the  strength  and  character 
of  the  Union  forces,  and  the  simple  country  people 
looked  for  a  reign  of  terror  which  would  deprive  them  all, 
loyal  and  disloyal,  of  life  and  property.  The  result  was  that, 
fleeing  from  their  homes,  they  hid  away  in  the  woods  and 
mountains,  and  the  towns,  for  a  time,  were  well-nigh  de- 
serted. To  allay  this  alarm,  and  to  restore  society  to  more 
of  its  normal  condition,  Garfield,  during  the  week  following 
the  battle,  issued  the  following  proclamation :  — 

"  Head-quarters,  Eighteenth  Brigade,  ) 
Pai>;tville,  Ky  ,  Jau.  16,  1862,      \ 

"  Citizens  of  the  Saxdy  Valley,  —  I  have  come 
among  you  to  restore  the  honor  of  the  Union,  and  to 
bring  back  the  Old  Banner  which  you  all  once  loved, 
but  which,  by  the  machinations  of  evil  men  and  by  mutual 
misunderstandings,  has  been  dishonored  among  you.  To 
those  who  are  in  arms  against  the  Federal  Government  I 
offer  only  the  alternative  of  battle  or  unconditional  surren- 
der ;  but  t-o  those  who  have  taken  no  part  in  this  war,  —  who 

(270) 


U  E  T  K I  H  U  T ION 


271 


are  in  no  way  aiding  or  abetting  the  enemies  of  tlie  Union, 
even  to  those  who  hold  sentiments  adverse  to  the  Union,  hut 
yet  give  no  aid  and  comfort  to  its  enemies,  I  oft'er  the  full 
protection  of  the  government  both  in  their  persons  and  prop- 
erty. 

"  Let  those  who  have  been  seduced  away  from  the  love  of 
their  country  to  follow  after  and  aid  the  destroyers  of  our 
peace,  lay  down  their  arms,  return  to  their  homes,  bear  true 
allegiance  to  the  Federal  Government,  and  they  also  shall 
enjoy  like  protection.  The  army  of  the  Union  wages  no  war 
of  plunder,  but  comes  to  bring  back  the  prosperity  of  peace. 
Let  all  peace-loving  citizens  who  have  fled  from  their  homes, 
return  and  resume  again  the  pursuits  of  peace  and  industry. 
If  citizens  have  suftered  from  any  outrages  by  the  soldiers 
under  my  command,  I  invite  them  to  make  known  their  com- 
plaints to  me,  and  their  wrongs  shall  be  redressed  and  the 
offenders  punished.  I  expect  the  friends  of  the  Union  in 
this  valley  to  banish  from  among  them  all  private  feuds,  and 
to  let  a  liberal-minded  love  of  country  direct  their  conduct 
toward  those  who  have  been  so  sadly  estranged  and  mis- 
guided. I  hope  that  these  days  of  turbulence  may  soon  end, 
and  the  better  days  of  the  Kepublic  soon  return. 

*' (Signed,)  J.  A.  Garfield, 

"  Colonel  Commanding  Brigade." 

Encouraged  by  this  promise  of  protection,  the  people  soon 
issued  from  their  hiding-places,  and  began  to  flock  about  the 
Union  head-quarters.  From  them  various  reports  were  re- 
ceived of  the  whereabouts  and  intentions  of  Marshall.  By 
some  it  was  said  that,  reinforced  by  three  Virginia  regiments 


272  ON     THE     BORDER. 

and  six  field-pieces,  he  had  made  a  stand,  and  was  fortifying 
himself  in  a  strong  position  about  thirty  miles  above,  on  the 
waters  of  the  Big  Beaver ;  by  others,  that  he  was  merely  col- 
lecting provisions  and  preparing  to  retreat  into  Tennessee  as 
soon  as  the  runs  and  rivers  should  become  passable. 

All  the  information,  however,  indicated  that  Marshall  had 
made  a  stand,  and  was  still  within  the  limits  of  Kentuck3^ 
It  was  to  Garfield  of  the  first  moment  to  learn  his  exact  posi- 
tion, and  to  this  end  he  despatched  a  body  of  a  hundred 
horsemen,  under  Captain  Jenkins,  of  the  Ohio  Cavalry,  with 
orcffers  to  go  up  the  Big  Sandy  as  far  as  Piketon,  and  not 
to  return  until  they  had  ascertained  the  position  and  inten- 
tions of  the  enemy. 

Jordan  accompanied  the  squadron  as  guide,  and,  proceeding 
cautiously  up  the  narrow  road  which  winds  along  the  river, 
they  surrounded  the  town  just  as  a  dozen  mounted  rebels 
were  fleeing  from  it  in  the  opposite  direction.  Lieutenant 
Lake,  of  Wooster,  Ohio,  being  in  the  advance,  called  to  two  of 
his  men,  and,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  followed  in  a  break- 
neck chase  of  four  or  five  miles. 

.  During  the  pursuit  they  killed  one  rebel,  and  severely 
wounded  another ;  but  they  kept  on,  —  for  a  short  distance  in 
advance  were  two  others,  one  of  them  evidently  a  man  of 
some  consideration.  The  two  were  mounted  on  one  horse, 
which  they  were  urging  to  his  ultnost  speed,  and,  as  they 
turned  a  bend  in  the  road,  came  within  range  of  the  guns  of 
their  pursuers. 

Private  Boone,  of  the  Porty-second  Ohio,  being  for  the  mo- 
ment in  advance,  levelled  h^s  carbine,  and  fired  as  he  ran ;  but 
the  ball  struck  the  saddle  of  the  rebels,  and  glanced  ofi"  harm- 


R  E  T  R  I  li  U  T  I  O  N  .  273 

less.  Lieutenant  Lake  then  drew  his  revolver,  and  brought 
the  horse  to  the  ground  so  suddenly  that  the  two  riders 
turned  a  somersault  over  the  head  of  the  animal,  and  landed 
in  the  creek  which  bordered  the  highway.  When  they  re- 
covered their  feet  they  were  prisoners. 

Jordan  had  seen  the  reckless  daring  of  the  little  party  in 
setting  out  to  pursue  more  than  twice  their  number,  and, 
fearing  for  their  safety,  had  called  a  half-dozen  cavalrymen  to 
his  aid,  and  followed  only  some  ten  minutes  in  the  rear.  He 
came  up  while  Lake  and  his  prisoners  were  still  standing  in 
the  highway. 

Reining  up  his  horse,  he  turned  to  the  two  rebels,  and,  his 
eyes  giving  out  a  lurid  glare,  suddenly  exclaimed,  — 

"  Ah  !  it  is  a  long  road  that  has  no  end."  Leaning  over 
his  saddle-bow,  he  almost  hissed  the  remainder,  "  And  at  the 
end  of  all  roads  there  is  retribution  !  " 

The  other's  face  grew  livid,  but  he  said,  with  some  appear- 
ance of  coolness,  — 

*'  I  am  your  prisoner ;  but  I  am  ready  to  take  the  oath." 

"  Take  the  oath  !  "  exclaimed  Jordan.  "  Do  you  expect  to 
atone  for  your  crimes  by  a  little  false  swearing  ?  Do  you  ex- 
pect to  live  while  there  is  timber  for  a  gallows  in  all  Ken- 
tucky?" 

''  I  do,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  mocking  smile.  "  I 
expect  to  live,  and  to  pass  sentence  on  a  good  many  more 
scoundrels." 

"Not  while  so  much  sacred  blood  cries  from  the  ground 
against  you,"  cried  Jordan. 

Kot  another  word  was  said,  but  there  was  a  sudden  upward 


274  ON     THE     BORDER. 

movement  of  Jordan's  hand,  then  his  pistol  exploded,  and 
Cecil  fell  dead  in  the  highway. 

"  My  God,  Jordan ! ''  cried  Lake,  who  had  stood  a  silent 
listener  to  this  conrersation.  "What  have  you  done?  He 
was  unarmed,  and  a  prisoner." 

A  strange,  wild  light  was  in  Jordan's  eyes  as  he  answered, — 

"  So  was  an  old  man  he  shot  down  on  his  own  hearth,  —  so 
was  a  young  hoy  he  hanged  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  mother. 
Blood  will  have  blood.  This  world  couldn't  hold  him  and  me, 
lieutenant,  —  no  !  not  this  world,  nor  any  other." 

"  I  know,  and  I  pity  you,  Jordan,"  said  Lake ;  "  but  the 
colonel  will  have  to  hang  you.  Go,  —  get  away.  Get  away 
at  once.     Not  a  man  of  us  will  lift  a  hand  against  you." 

"  Xo,"  answered  Jordan  ;  "  I  shall  not  run  ;  I  will  answer 
for  what  I  ha,ve  done." 

Then,  turning  his  horse's  head,  he  led  the  column,  which 
bore  the  lifeless  body  of  Cecil,  back  to  Piketon. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


CO^'DE^L\A  TION. 


^^'HE  killincr  of  Cecil  was  tlie  source  of  much  embarrass- 
ment  to  the  Union  commander.     He  was  the  leading 


man  of  the  district.  His  death  would  be  known  far 
and  wide,  and,  if  it  went  unpunished,  it  would  show 
the  people  of  the  district,  and  of  all  Kentucky,  —  whom  it  was 
then  the  policy  of  the  government  to  pacify  and  conciliate,  — ■ 
that  no  trust  could  be  put  in  the  friendly  professions  of  the 
Federals.  Policy,  therefore,  required  that  his  slayer  should 
be  severely  dealt  by.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Jordan  had 
done  important  service  to  the  Union  cause,  and  on  tlie  lone 
and  toilsome  marches  had  so  often  ridden  by  the  side  of 
Garfield,  that  he  now  seemed  to  him  more  a  friend  than  a 
subordinate.  His  release  might  spread  a  feeling  of  insecurity 
throughout  the  district,  and  lose  one  of  the  objects  of  the  cam- 
paign. His  trial  for  murder,  by  court  martial,  might  forfeit 
the  life  of  a  man  whose  services  had  entitled  him  to  great  re- 
ward, and  whose  WTongs  at  the  hand  of  tlie  murdered  man 
would  secure  him  acquittal  by  any  civil  jury  in  Kentucky. 

While  the  commander  was  undecided  which  course  to  pur- 
sue, Bradley  Brown  rather  unceremoniously  entered  his  tent 
one  morning. 

C275) 


276  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"General,"  he  said  to  him,  "ye  orter  to  let  Jordan  off. 
He's  done  a  heap  fur  the  kentr3-,  and  the  best  thing  he  ever 
done  was  riddin'  it  uv  ole  Cecil ! " 

"  I  know  Cecil  was  a  bad  man,  and  Jordan  had  received 
great  provocation." 

"  Provercation  !  "  exclaimed  Brown.  "  If  Jordan  hadn't  a 
killed  him,  he'd  not  ha'  been  a  man.  Let  him  go,  general." 
•  "  I  don't  see  how  I  can  without  a  trial.  If  he  is  court- 
martialed,  he  may  not  be  convicted." 

"  May  not !  "  echoed  Brown  ;  "  but  them  ar'  ugly  words, 
general,  when  a  man's  life  ar'  at  stake.  Let  him  go,  and  put 
it  to  my  account.  I've  done-  ye  a  good  turn  or  two,  and  I'd 
ruther  hang  myself  than  hev  thet  man's  neck  get  inter  a 
halter." 

"  I  can't  let  him  go.  Brown,  without  a  trial,"  answered  the 
general.  "  The  forms  of  justice  must  be  complied  with  ;  but 
I  hope  he  will  not  be  convicted." 

A  court,  composed  mostly  of  Kentuck}-  officers,  was  con- 
vened within  a  few  days,  and  Jordan  was  brought  before  it. 
He  sat  among  the  few  soldiers  who  were  detailed  as  his 
guard,  and  nothing  in  his  appearance  indicated  that  he  was 
about  to  be  tried  for  taking  the  life  of  a  fellow-being.  His 
face  wore  its  usual  dreamy  expression,  but  some  deeper  lines 
about  his  mouth  told  that  the  fearful  tragedy  had  made  its 
impression  on  his  soul. 

The  court  was  opened  in  the  usual  manner,  the  charge 
read,  and  then  the  witnesses  were  examined.  Each  of  the  half- 
dozen  present  testified  to  hearing  the  discharge  of  the  revolver, 
and  to  seeing  Cecil  fall,  without  a  word,  suddenly  dead  in  the 
highway ;  but  not  one  could  swear  positively  who  fired  the 


CONDEMNATION.  -<' 

fatal  shot,  or  remember  any  act  that  would  fix  the  deed  upon 
the  prisoner. 

At  this  point  in  the  proceedings,  the  Judge  Advocate 
smiled,  and  Brown,  who  sat  at  his  elbow,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  exclaimed,  — 

"  I'm  durned  ef  ye  haint  a  decent  set,  anyhow.  Count  on 
Brad.  Brown  if  ye  uver  git  inter  trouble." 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  mouth  when  the  prisoner 
rose,  and  turned  toward  the  witnesses. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  thank  you,"  he  said.  "  You  mean  to  do  me 
a  kindness,  and  I  thank  you.  But  I  prefer  the  truth  should 
be  told.  I  fired  the  shot  which  killed  Judge  Cecil.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  forgot  that  vengeance  belongs  only  to  God,  and  I 
stained  my  hands  with  a  crime  which  all  the  water  in  the 
world  cannot  wash  away.  For  that  I  expect  justice,  not 
mercy.  Whether  you  deal  it  to  me  or  not,  it  will  come.  I 
could  not,  if  I  would,  escape  it,  for,  as  night  follows  day,  so 
retribution  follows  crime.  It  is  already  on  me,  bearing  me 
down,  and  bringing  darkness  between  me  and  my  God.  You 
could  not  save  me  from  it  if  you  would;  and,  with  the  hand 
of  God  on  me,  why  should  I  fear  the  hand  of  man  ?  No, 
gentlemen,  let  justice  be  done,  —  I  killed  Judge  Cecil." 

He  sat  down,  rested  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  with  sad, 
dreamy  eyes  looked  out  upon  vacancy. 

For  a  few  moments  not  a  word  was  uttered  in  the  assem- 
blage ;  then  the  Judge  Advocate  rose,  and  in  a  husky  voice 
said  to  the  presiding  officer,  — 

"Nothing  remains  but  to  pass  sentence  upon  the  prisoner." 

The  sentence  was  passed:   it  was,  — subject  to  the  approval 

of  the  colonel  commanding,  —  death  on  the  following  Friday. 

24 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


ANOTHER    ESCAPE. 


T  is  tlie  night  before  the  fatal  Friday,  and  Jordan 
is  alone  in  the  dreary  log-shanty,  wliich  has  been 
his  prison-house  since  he  received  the  sentence  of 
the  court-martial.  Without,  the  moon  is  shining 
brightly,  and  the  measured  tread  of  the  guards  is  making  a 
sort  of  doleful  music  on  the  frozen  highway ;  but  within,  all 
is  gloom  and  silence.  A  low  fire  is  burning  on  the  hearth, 
casting  a  dim  halo  round  the  solitary  man,  but  leaving  the 
most  of  the  room  in  darkness. 

He  sits  before  the  hearth,  gazing  intently  into  the  blaze, 
and  now,  as  a  slight  puft'  of  wind  fans  the  almost  dying  flame, 
we  get  a  view  of  his  features.  They  are  strangely  altered. 
His  cheeks  are  hollow,  his  eyes  sunken  ;  his  sandy  hair  is 
turned  to  a  sort  of  flaxen  whiteness.  There  have  been  men 
whose  heads  grief  has  turned  white  in  a  single  night ;  but  it 
is  not  grief  which  has  made  this  young  man  an  old  one.  It 
is  the  shadow  of  his  crime,  that,  settling  on  his  soul,  has 
brought  around  him  the  thick  night  in  which  he-  has  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  Unseen  in  all  its  terrors. 

As  he  sits  there  gazing  into  the  fire,  the  door  opens,  and, 
with  a  hurried  step,  a  woman  enters  the   apartment.     She 

(278) 


ANOTHER     ESCAPE.  279 

falls  at  his  feet,  clasps  his  knees,  and,  in  a  voice  laden  with 
the  despair  which  it  echoes,  says,  — 

"  0  John  I  John  !  There  is  no  hope  !  ISTothing  —  but  death 
to-morrow ! " 

He  lifts  her  gently  from  the  floor,  draws  her  near  to  him  on 
the  rude  bench,  and,  putting  away  her  tangled  hair,  tenderly 
kisses  her  on  the  forehead.     Then  he  says,  — 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so ;  but  never  nynd,  my  little  one. 
It  is  all  well,  —  all  well  now.  The  darkness  has  cleared  away, 
and  it  will  all  be  bright  in  the  great  to-morrow.^' 

She  twines  her  arms  about  his  neck  in  a  convulsive  embrace 
as  she  cries,  — 

"  Oh,  no !  It  can't  be ;  you  shall  not  die  !  Oh,  it  would 
kill  me,  John,  —  me,  your  poor  Rachel ! " 

His  great  hand  toys  with  her  flowing  hair,  and  he  softly 
answers,  — 

"  I  know  it  will  be  hard ;  but  I  want  you  to  be  a  brave 
woman,  Rachel.  I  want  you  to  be  worthy  of  me;  and  I, 
Rachel,  —  though  the  blood  I  told  you  of  is  on  my  hands,  — 
/  have  tried  to  be  worthy  of  my  ancestors." 

"  And  can't  they  help  you  ?  "  she  cried,  looking  up,  wildly. 
"  Can't  they  save  you  from  this  dreadful  death  ?  0  John,  if 
you  have  to  die,  I  shall  think  there  is  no  God,  and  no  good- 
ness or  trv^.i:i  in  all  the  universe  ! " 

Then  again  her  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and  her  arms 
twined  about  him  convulsively. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  when  he  spoke  his 
voice  had  in  it  even  a  deeper  tenderness. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Rachel,"  he  said.  "  I  have  done  a  great 
crime,  —  taken  what  I  cannot  give,  —  the   life  of  a  fellow- 


280  OK     THE     BORDER. 

being.  I  have  usurped  the  right  of  God,  —  wrought  the 
vengeance  that  belongs  only  to  Him.  It  was  the  thought  of 
this  that  bowed  me  down.  But  now  it  is  over ;  for  He,  — 
the  Jesus  I  accounted  only  a  man,  and  with  my  weak  wisdom 
tried  to  measure,  —  He  has  been  to  me,  and  in  my  inmost 
soul  has  whispered,  '  Son,  be  of  good  cheer ;  your  crime  is 
forgiven  you.'  He  can  forgive,  for  He  is  the  Great  Ruler ; 
but  men  cannot  f«rgive,  because  society,  for  its  own  security, 
must  punish  the  criminal.  If  they  should  let  me  go,  people 
would  say  there  was  no  law  and  no  safety  in  all  Kentucky." 

"  I  know,"  she  sobbed,  "  it  is  the  hard-hearted  reason  they 
give  for  taking  your  life.  They  forget  that  weren't  it  for  you, 
there  might  be  no  law  and  no  safety  for  even  themselves  this 
side  of  the  Ohio." 

"  No,  they  don't  forget  it.  How  Buell  feels  I  am  not  cer- 
tain ;  but  Garfield,  I  know,  would  make  any  sacrifice  to  save 
me.  He  knows  that,  if  I  were  let  go,  it  woidd  give  the  lie  to 
his  promise  of  protection,  and  perhaps  make  impossible  the 
pacification  of  the  district ;  but  still,  I  think,  he  would  release 
me  if  he  could." 

"  But  he  says  he  can't,-  —  the  messenger  has  come  back 
from  Buell,  —  the  order  has  already  been  given  for  the  execu- 
tion ; "  and  again  she  clutched  him  with  a  strange,  convulsive 
energy. 

"  And  how  am  I  to  die  ?     Xot  —  not  by  the  gallows  ?  " 

"  I:s"o.  He  says  you  shall  die  like  a  soldier,  —  as  a  man 
should  who  has  risked  "his  life  for  his  country." 

"  Then  the  end  has  indeed  come,  Eachel.  It  was  this  death 
I  saw  in  the  vision  at  Frankfort.  Armed  men  were  about 
me,  and  I  was  bleeding  from  a  rifle-bullet." 


A  N  O  T  H  i:  li     ESCAPE.  281 

"  Then  it  is  so !  But  you  shall  not  go  alone.  I  will  die 
with  you.'* 

"  Ko,  Rachel,  you  must  live,  —  live  for  her,  —  my  mother." 

She  made  no  reply,  but,  slowly  rising  to  her  feet,  paced  up 
and  down  the  room,  now  and  then  tossing  her  arms  into  the 
air  wildly.  Jordan  said  nothing,  but  his  eye  followed  her, 
and  his  whole  frame  shook  with  repressed  emotion.  At  last 
she  came  to  him,  sat  down  again  at  his  side,  and  twined  her 
arms  again  about  him. 

"  I  will  live,  John,''  she  said,  "  live  for  you ;  but  you  will 
let  me  stay  here  till  they  take  you  away  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,"  he  answered,  "  you  had  better  not.  She 
needs  you  now.  Go,  and  bring  her  with  you  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

She  rose,  bent  down  over  him  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
drawing  her  outer  garment  over  her  uncovered  head,  stag- 
gered, without  a  word,  out  of  the  door- way. 

An  hour,  two  hours  he  sat  there  after  she  went  away,  and 
the  fire  died  out,  leaving  the  dreary  room  in  thick  darkness. 
Then  he  rose,  and  stretched  himself  upon  a  blanket  before 
the  hearth  to  wait  for  the  morning.  Soon  sleep  crept  over 
him,  —  the  deep  sleep  which  is  born  of  great  sorrow.  Grad- 
ually the  darkness  went  out  of  his  eyes,  and  there  opened  to 
him  a  scene  which  his  boyhood's  dreams  had  made  strangely 
familiar.  It  was  the  mountains  he  had  pictured  in  all  their 
Alpine  grandeur.  Far  below  was^  tlie  arid  plain,  with  its 
grovelling  horde,  and  far  above  the  cMudy  summits,  along 
which  the  angel  messengers  were  passing  and  repassing  on 
their  missions  of  love  and  mercy.  One  came  near,  and  Jor- 
dan, stretching  out  his  arms,  cried  to  him,  — 
24  • 


282  ON     THE     BORDER. 

*'  Come,  oil,  come,  and  take  me  to  yonder  land  of  peace  and 
rest  eternal." 

"  Xot  3^et,  —  not  j'et,"  the  angel  answered.  "  Look  around 
you." 

He  looked.  He  was  on  a  narrow  island,  between  wliicli 
and  the  base  of  the  mountain  a  wide  sea  was  rolling.  It  was 
an  arid  desert,  overgrown  with  thorns  and  thick  briers,  and  its 
onl}"  inhabitant  was  a  man,  bent  nearly  double  with  a  heavy 
load,  his  clothes  in  ras^s,  and  his  eves  ever  looking:  downward. 
Jordan  went  near,  and  saw  it  was  —  Cecil  ! 

"  You  sent  him  here,  and  you  must  raise  him  up,  and  lift 
the  burden  from  off  his  shoulders,"  said  a  voice  from  out  the 
gloom,  —  for  the  clouds  had  gathered  round,  and  shut  out 
alike  the  angel  visitant  and  the  far-off  mountain  summits. 

Jordan  essayed  to  speak,  but  a  heavy  hand  was  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  was  awake  again  in  the  darkness  of  the 
dreary  cabin. 

"  Be  as  still  as  death ;  but  come  quick,  put  on  this  uni- 
form," said  a  voice  which  sounded  familiar. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Jordan,  rising,  and  running  his 
hand  over  the  man's  face  in  the  darkness. 

"  Brad.  Brown.  But  put  on  the  uniform  quick  ;  if  ye  don't, 
ye  carn't  git  beyont  the  outside  pickets." 

"  But  you  are  running  yourself  into  danger,"  said  Jordan, 
undecidedly,  standing  with  the  new  accoutrements  in  his 
hands. 

'^  D n  the  danger !     Don't  stop,  to  parley.     It'r   arter 

midnight,  and  at  four  the  guard'll  be  changed,  and  they'll 
larn  ye're  missin'.  Ye  must  be  miles  away  'fore  then,  for  the 
gineraVll  hev  to  hunt  ye  down,  to  save  'pearances." 


ANOTHER     ESCAPE.  283 

"  Then  he  knows  of  this  ?  *'  said  Jordan,  beginning  to  don 
tlie  disguise. 

"■  No,  lie  don't,  —  not  a  tiling.  It's  only  me,  the  old  sargint, 
and  some  of  the  Fourteenth,  as  is  on  guard  from  now  till  four 
in  the  morning." 

"And  you  have  bribed  them  to  shut  their  eyes  to  their 
duty  ?  " 

''  Not  a  bribe  !  I  oftered  it,  but  they  wouldn't  tuck  a  red  ; 
they's  the  decentest  set  I've  come  onto  in  all  Kaintucky." 

"But  they'll  surely  get  into  trouble.  Garfield  will  have  to 
hold  them  to  account  for  letting  me  go." 

"  Don't  be  too  shure  uv  thet.  Don't  I  know  him  ?  —  haint 
I  knowed  him  ever  sence  he  was  a  boy  ?  He'd  give  all  his 
old  boots  to  be  well  rid  uv  ye.  But  come,  hurry  up  ;  I've  left 
Ole  'Zeke  asleep  into  my  tent  to  prove  an  aliby,  and  swar  I 
warn't  out  o'  doors  all  the  night-time  ;  and  if  the  old  fellow 
should  wake  up  and  find  me  gone,  he  wouldn't  swear  it  to 
save  me  frum  a  halter.     Come  I " 

By  this  time  Jordan  was  arrayed  in  the  new  regimentals, 
and,  taking  him  by  the  arm.  Brown  led  him  out  of  the  cabin. 
Not  a  sentinel  was  in  sight,  but  when  they  had  proceeded  a 
few  rods  Jordan  heard  a  low  whistle  ;  and,  turning  round,  saw 
about  a  dozen  men  emerge  from  the  rear  of  the  low  cabin. 

Without  a  word,  the  two  Malked  rapidly  on  until  the  last 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  was  behind  them.  Then 
Brown  led  the  wa}'  into  a  belt  of  trees,  and  said  to  Jor- 
dan, — 

"  I  carn't  go  no  furder,  —  I  musn't  be  seed  by  the  pickets. 
One  on  'em  ai-*  'bout  a  hundred  rods  ahead,  t'other  'bout  as 
fur  ag'in,  stret  norrard  ;  and  ye'll  find  'Beauty' a  half  a  mile 


284  ON     THE     BORDER. 

clo\^Ti  thar,  hitched  in  a  hiiirel  thicket.  The  fust  word  ar 
'  Couciliate/  the  t'other  '  Kaintucky  ; '  and,  ha  !  ha  !  it  war 
them  two  words  as  was  a  gwiue  to  he  the  death  uv  ye  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  thank  you,  Brown,''  said  Jordan  ;  ''  at  bottom  you  have 
a  noble  heart." 

"  I  don't  know  'bout  that,  ^Ir.  Jordan  ;  but  I  never  forgits 
a  debt,  and  I  owe  ye  a  big  one.  P'raps  this  oughter  pay  it, 
but  ye'll  need  suthin'  to  begin  the  world  on  whar  ye's  a  gwine. 
Yere's  a  thousand  hard  rocks,  and  with  yer  talents,  they'll 
sot  ye  up  well  in  'Hio." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Jordan,  his  voice  trembling  slightly; 
"bat  I  shall  not  need  money,  —  I  shall  not  leave  Ken- 
tucky." 

"  jSTot  leave  Kaintucky  !  Why,  yer  mad.  If  the  gineral 
catches  j'^oii,  he  will  have  to  hang  ye.  I  yered  him  say  it 
war  awful  hard,  but  thar  warn't  no  holp  fur  it ;  fur  the  guv'- 
ment  thought  it  necessary  to  keep  good  faith  about  the 
proclamation." 

"  I  know ;  but  I  shall  not  go.  I  shall  die  here,  if  I  have 
to  be  buried  under  a  gallows." 

"  Then  ye  will  be  ;  for  both  the  Confederates  and  the  Unions 
will  have  death  and  a  thousand  dollars  onto  ye.  Why,  ]\Ir. 
Jordan,  ye're  atween  two  fires,  —  thar's  a  halter  hangin'  fur 
ye  from  every  tree  in  Kaintucky." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  I  shall  cheat  them  all,  and  die  with  my 
back  to  the  earth  and  my  face  to  heaven." 

"  Wall,  I  hope  ye  will,  fur  yer  one  of  the  heroes.  Good-by, 
and  God  bless  ye." 

"  God  bless  you,  Brown !    I  shall  never  forget  this,  and  it 


ANOTHER     ESCAPE.  285 

may  be  you  will  be  repaid,  even  liere,  where  good  deeds  are 
not  alway.s  rewarded." 

Then  they  pj^rted,  Brown  to  liis  quarters,  Jordan  to  a  long 
ride  among  the  thickets  and  ravines  of  the  almost  inaccessible 
mountains. 

"Wlien  the  guard  was  relieved,  the  prisoner's  absence  was 
discovered,  and  at  once  reported  to  the  colonel  commanding. 
An  ex]3ression  of  satisfaction  at  first  unguardedly  escaped 
him ;  but,  instantly  remembering  his  duty,  he  summoned  to 
his  quarters  all  the  sentinels  on  guard  at  the  cabin. 

They  came,  and  with  them  came  Captain  Bent,  the  men 
being  members  of  his  company.  Each  was  separately  exam- 
ined, and  all  denied  any  knowledge  of  the  escape  of  the 
prisoner.  Xot  one  had  seen  him,  either  inside  or  outside  of 
his  quarters. 

This  was  all  that  the  men  said,  but  the  sergeant  volunteered 
a  few  additional  words  of  explanation. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  thar  warn't  but  one  door  and  one  winder 
to  the  cabin.  He  couldn't  hev  got  out  o*  them,  and  he  couldn't 
hev  gone  up  the  chimley  ;  so  he  must  hev  turned  inter  a 
sperit,  —  he  must,  certain  ! " 

The  colonel  had  listened  with  becoming  dignity  to  the 
meagre  reports  of  the  men,  but  this  wordy  explanation  of  the 
sergeant  was  too  much  for  his  gravity.  Laughing  heartily, 
he  said,  — 

"  You  are  more  knaves  than  fools,  every  one  of  you  ;  and 
if  we  were  not  to  march  to-morrow,  I'd  find  a  way  to  get  the 
truth  from  you." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,  colonel,"  now  said  Captain  Bent.  "  You 
might  put  them   to  the  thumb-screw,  and  not  get  another 


286  ON     THE     BORDER. 

W'ord.     There's  not  a  man  in  the  Fourteenth  Kentucky  but 
would  die  to  save  John  Jordan." 

'No  more  was  said ;  and  so  Jordan  went  at  large,  outlawed 
by  both  his  friends  and  his  enemies. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEETING. 


T  was  late  at  night,  on  tlie  third  day  after  the  escape 
of  Jordan,  when  a  low  rap  came  at  the  window  of 
the  lonely  cabin  in  the  wilderness,  and,  roused  by  the 
sound,  Rachel  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  lis- 
tened. Soon  the  rap  was  repeated,  and  then  came  a  low, 
peculiar  cry,  like  that  of  a  wounded  bird  struggling  in  the 
death-acjonies. 

Lifting  the  sash,  Eachel  leaned  out  into  the  darkness,  and 
said,  in  quick,  eager  tones,  — 

"John!  John!  is  it  you?" 

"  Yes,  Rachel.  Go  round  to  the  door  and  let  me  into  the 
cabin." 

"  Xo,  John,  not  by  the  door ;  you  would  disturb  mother. 
Come  in  here ;  not  at  this  one,  —  my  bed  is  here,  —  at  the 
other.     I  will  open  it  in  a  moment." 

Letting  the  sash  down  softly,  she  sprang  out  of  bed, 
and,  throwing  a  loose  robe  over  her  night-clothing,  went  to 
the  other  window.  In  a  moment  more  Jordan  was  in  the 
room,  and  enclosed  within  the  arms  of  the  wildly  joyful 
woman. 

(2S7) 


288  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  0  John  !  John  !  "  she  cried,  "  to  have  you  once  more ! 
Oh,  I  sliall  die  with  this  great  joy !  You  safe  and  back 
again  I " 

'^  Calm  3^ourself,  my  little  one,"  he  said,  bending  down  and 
kissing  her  on  the  forehead.  "  God  is  good ;  He  gives  us 
some  moments  which  make  up  for  years  of  suffering." 

''But  we  will  have  no  more  suffering,"  she  said,  clinging 
closely  to  his  neck,  and  pressing  her  lips  to  his  wildly.  '*  I 
will  never  let  you  go  away  again ;  you  shall  stay  with  me 
now  always." 

He  made  no  reply,  but,  putting  back  her  flowing  hair, 
kissed  her  again  and  again  on  the  forehead.  Then  he 
said, — 

"  And  how  is  mother  ?  Has  she  got  over  the  terrible  shock 
it  gave  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  she  almost  died  of  joy  when  she  heard  of 
your  getting  away.  I  believe  she  would  have  died  if  we 
hadn't  made  her  sleep.  She  needs  it  now,  so  you  mustn't 
disturb  her ;  and,  besides,  I  must  have  you  all  to  myself  for 
a  little  while."  And  again  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his  franti- 
cally. 

He  held  her  so  for  a  while ;  then,  placing  her  gently  in  a 
chair  near  the  hearth,  he  raked  up  the  smouldering  fire,  and 
hung  some  thick  blankets  before  the  windows.  When  this 
was  done,  they  sat  for  many  minutes,  neither  of  them  speak- 
ing.    At  last  she  said,  softly,  — 

'•  0  John !  I  so  thanked  God  when  they  told  me  you  were 
outlawed  by  both  sides ;  for  then  I  knew  you  would  go,  and 
we  could  go  together,  and  be  all  in  all  to  each  other  for- 
ever." 


A     MIDNIGHT     >I  E  E  T  1  N  G  .  289 

She  leaned  fonvartl,  and  pressed  her  lijis  to  his  again, 
wildly. 

He  made  no  reply,  hut  turned  his  face  away  towards  the 
the  fire-light.  Some  great  struggle  seemed  to  be  going  on 
within  him.     At  last  he  said,  his  face  still  averted,  - — 

"  No,  no,  Rachel.  I  must  go,  —  I  must  be  about  the 
Master's  business." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  Where  can  you  go  ?  What  now 
should  keep  us  apart  ?  Are  you  not  hunted  down  by  both 
3'our  friends  and  j'our  enemies  ?  You  must  flee  to  some 
strange  country.  I  will  go  with  you,  and  be  your  wife  for- 
ever." 

She  paused  for  a  while,  and  then  she  added,  — 

"  Oh,  I  so  yearn  for  you,  John  !  so  long  to  be  with  you 
always ! " 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  again  he  turned  his  face  to 
the  fire-light.    The  old  gleam  was  on  it  when  he  ansMered,  — 

"  Eacliel,  I  love  you  better  than  I  love  my  life,  and  I  will 
put  my  soul  itself  into  your  keeping.  You  shall  hear  what  I 
say,  and  then  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me,  let  come  what 
may  come  hereafter.  Every  man  has  a  work  to  do  in  the 
world.  If  he  does  this  work,  he  grows  ;  his  whole  nature  ex- 
pands, and  he  enters  upon  the  other  life,  ages,  it  may  be,  in 
advance  of  the  one  who  turns  his  back  upon  his  duty.  The 
work  of  some  men  is  hard,  —  of  others,  easy.  My  work  has 
been  hard,  Rachel.  It  has  required  me  to  crucify  one  half  of 
my  nature,  to  live  in  constant  peril  of  my  life,  and,  since  I 
knew  you  did  not  love  Brown,  to  bear  a  heavy  cross  dail3^" 

"  But  it  is  over  now,  John,"  she  said,  looking  up,  with  a 

25 


290  ON     T  11  E     li  O  R  D  i:  11  . 

tender  gleam  in  her  ej^es.  "  AYitli  a  j^rice  set  on  your  head, 
wliat  more  can  you  do  for  Kentuclvy  ?  " 

"  What,  perliaps,  no  other  man  can  do,''  he  answered.  "  I 
will  tell  you.  Garfield  has  beaten  ]Marshall,  but  has  not 
driven  him  from  the  State.  He  still  holds  Pound  Gap,  and 
his  guerilla."  are  still  overrunning  all  the  lower  counties,  rob- 
bing and  murdering  defenceless  men  and  women.  Garfield 
has  moved  on  to  Piketon,  in  the  hope  of  bringing  him  to  bat- 
tle ;  but  Marshall  will  not  fight  until  he  can  bring  up  strong 
reinforcements  from  Virginia.  Then  he  -will  sweep  down 
upon  Garfield,  and  drive  him  from  the  State  within  a  fort- 
night. In  that  event,  Kentucky  and  the  Union  may  be  lost 
forever.  Garfield  cannot  bring  Marshall  to  battle,  because  he 
is  entrenched  in  a  position  from  which  a  force  five  times  as 
strong  as  his  could  not  dislodge  him  by  direct  assault.  Some 
one  must  enter  Marshall's  camp,  learn  his  exact  strength  and 
position,  and  then  guide  Garfield  over  the  mountains  to  the 
rear  of  the  rebel  entrenchments."    ■ 

"  But  you  can't  do  that,  John." 

"  I  can,  Rachel.  I  can  go  into  Marshall's  camp,  and  get 
safely  out,  for  nature  made  me  an  actor.  Then  I  can  guide 
Garfield,  for  I  know  every  rod  of  the  mountain.'* 

"  But  you  would  be  taken,  you  would  be  shot !  Garfield 
himself  told  me  that  if  you  were  captured  he  would  have  to 
carry  out  the  sentence  of  the  court-martial." 

"  I  know  ;  but  not  a  man  in  his  army  would  be  willing  to 
do  these  things.  If  I  do  not  do  them  they  will  not  be  done, 
and  if  they  are  not  done  Kentucky  will  be  lost." 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  lose  your  life,  John,  —  3-ou  will  surely 


A     .M  I  D  \  I  r,  II  T     M  K  K  TING.  291 

lose  your  life  !  "'  and  her  head  sank  to  his  shoulder,  and  her 
arms  twined  abou^  him   convulsively. 

"  Rachel,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  more  than  likely  that  I 
shall.  It  is  for  you  to  say  whether  I  shall  or  not,  —  whether 
I  shall  die  a  brave,  true  man,  and  leave  a  memory  that  you 
will  be  proud  of,  or  whether  I  shall  skulk  away  into  some 
free  State,  and,  with  the  wife  of  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  my 
life,  live  the  rest  of  my  days  in  oj^en  violation  of  the  laws  of 
both  God  and  man." 

"  0  John,  I  had  not  looked  at  it  so.  Do  not  ask  me.  I 
cannot  decide." 

His  voice  was  very  soft,  and  very  gentle,  as  he  answered,  — 
"  You  must,  Rachel.     To  your  unselfish  love  I  commit  my 
very  soul." 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  into  his 
face  with  eyes  that  had  in  them  a  strange  radiance,  she 
said,  — 

"  Then  die,  John  ;  and  wait  therejill  my  life  here  is  ended. 
I  will  do  my  humble  work  and  live  upon  your  memory,  until 
you  come  and  take  me  to  you  forever." 

He  clasped  his  great  arms  about  her,  and,  drawing  her 
to  him  yet  more  closely,  he  said,  — 

"  Oh,  my  guide,  my  hope,  my  comfort !  Kow  you  are  in- 
deed mine  !  Now  no  shadow  can  come  between  us,  —  be- 
tween your  soul  and  my  soul." 

Long  they  sat  there,  she  in  his  arms,  and  neither  of  them 
speaking.     At  last  he  said,  — 

"I  had  a  strange  dream  the  other  night,  Rachel,  —  a 
dream  that  was  a  revelation.     It  showed  me  a  new  truth,  — 


292  ON     THE     IJ  O  R  D  E  R  . 

gave  me  a  new  insight  into  the  moral  government  of  the 
Creator." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  she  said  ;  ''  tell  me." 

"  The  curtain  was  drawn  aside.  I  saw  the  delectable  coun- 
try. But  it  was  far  awaj^,  and  between  me  and  it  a  wide  sea 
was  rolling.  I  wanted  to  go  to  it,  but  a  voice  said,  '  Xot  yet ; 
look  around  you.'  I  looked,  and  saw  tliat  I  was  on  a  desert 
island.  No  one  was  near  but  a  wretched  man,  his  clothing 
in  tatters,  and  he  so  bowed  down  with  a  heavy  burden  that 
he  could  not  stand  upright.     It  was  Cecil." 

"  Cecil,  that  bad  man  !     Oh,  what  could  be  its  meaning  ?  " 

"  That  the  voice  told  me.  It  said  I  had  sent  him  there, 
and  I  could  not  reach  the  beautiful  land  till  I  had  raised  him 
up  and  lifted  the  burden  from  off  his  shoulders.  And  this  was 
the  truth  it  taught  me,  —  that  we  ourselves  cannot  rise  until 
we  lift  those  who  are  brought  down  by  our  crimes  or  our 
neglect  of  duty.  Think  of  this,  my  darling.  I  will  say  no 
more  ;  but  some  day  it  wiU  come  to  you,  —  my  meaning." 

She  turned  suddenly  pale,  and  her  voice  was  almost  husky, 
as  she  asked,  — 

"  What  do  you  mean,  John  ?  You  surely  would  not  have 
me  go  back  to  that  man,  —  have  me  become  a  wanton  ?  " 

"  No,  Eachel.  I  would  have  you  do  nothing  against  your 
conscience.  If  that  says  you  have  done  all  you  can  do,  it 
will  all  be  well  hereafter." 

"  0  John,  you  put  a  dagger  through  me.  He  has  told 
me  that  only  with  me  could  he  stand  upright  and  be  a  man, 
and  I  did  j)romise  to  keep  to  him  through  all  things.  It  was 
an  idle  promise,  got  from  me  by  deceit ;  but  it  may  be  that,  to 
punish  me  for  breaking  it,  God  has  put  his  very  soul  into  my 


A     MID  N  1  G  II  T     .AI  E  E  T  I  N  G  .  293 

hands.  Oh,  the  kleca  is  too  horrible  !  Since  I  woke  to  know 
I  loved  you,  the  very  thought  of  him  has  been  to  me  a  terror 
and  a  loathing.'^ 

"  Well,  think  no  more  of  it  now,  Rachel.  Some  day  your 
duty  will  be  plain  to  you." 

They  sat  for  a  while  longer  in  silence ;  then  he  suddenly 
sprang  to  his  feet,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Hark  !     What  is  that  ?     The  sound  of  horses  ?  " 

She  sprang  to  the  window,  threw  up  the  sash,  and  looked 
out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  in  a  moment ;  "  twenty  horsemen  coming 
up  the  highway,  —  now  they  are  turning  into  the  path.  Run, 
John,  this  way,  through  the  window." 

But  he  was  too  late,  for  already  the  shadow  of  one  of  the 
troopers  was  against  the  half-open  casement. 
25* 


CHAPTER  XX Y. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF   ONE    FATHER. 


N  a  moment  a  heavy  pounding  was  heard  at  the 
outer  door,  and  the  widow  Jordan,  awaking,  cried 
out,  — 

"  Who  is  there  ?    What  is  wanted  ?  " 

"  Kachel  Irving,"  said  a  voice  which  Jordan  recognized  as 
that  of  "Weddington. 

"  Thank  God,  it  is  me  and  not  you,"  said  Eachel,  in  a  whis- 
per. ''  Keep  quiet,  and  you  will  not  be  discovered.  I  will  go 
and  open  the  door.  They  will  not  try  to  harm  me ;  if  they 
do,  this  will  protect  me ; "  and  she  took  a  long  knife  from 
Jordan's  girdle. 

"Do  not  open  the  door,"  said  Jordan.  "Do  nothing. 
Leave  all  to  Providence.  He  will,  I  know,  bring  us  out  of 
this  danger." 

By  this  time  the  summons  for  admission  had  been  repeated, 
and  it  was  Ezekiel's  voice  that  now  answered,  — 

"You  carn't  come  in,  Massa  Jack,  and  you'd  better  go 
away  mighty  sudden ;  for  'Zeke's  got  suffin'  yere  as'll  settle 
yon'  hash  so  quick  it'll  make  you'  head  swim." 

Nothing  more  was  said,  but  a  heavy  blow  came  against  the 
door,  starting  the  half-rotten  j)lank  from  its  hinges.     Then 

(294) 


THE     CHILDREN     OF     ONE     F  A  T  II  E  R .  295 

came  another  blow,  which  drove  the  wliole  frame,  with  a 
loud  crash,  into  tlie  apartment.  A  half-dozen  pistol-shots 
were  fired  in  quick  succession,  and  then  half  a  score  of  armed 
men  rushed  into  the  room,  one  of  them  crying  out,  — 
"  Secure  the  old  nigger.  See  he  does  no  more  mischief." 
In  a  few  moments  the  smoke  cleared  away,  showing  the  old 
black  held  to  the  floor  by  four  strong  men ;  and  Rachel,  stand- 
ing against  the  door  of  the  lean-to,  with  the  naked  knife  in 
her  hands. 

"  Do  not  harm  him,"  she  cried ;  "  do  not,  on  your  lives  ! 
Jackson  Weddington,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"Not  much,  my  pretty  one;  only  I  am  going  away  for  a 
while,  and  a  short  journey  with  me  will  do  you  good." 

"  Are  you  a  man,  or  a  brute  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Jordan,  ad- 
vancing upon  him,  her  eyes  blazing.  '^Do  you  think  these 
ways  will  always  prosper  ?  " 

"  Peace,  mother !  "  said  Eachel,  with  an  imperious  gesture. 
'•  I  know  him.  Your  words  are  thrown  away."  Turning  to 
Weddington,  she  added,  "Release  'Zekiel,  and,  with  your 
men,  leave  the  house  this  instant,  and  I  will  go  with  you." 

"Go  with  him!  Why,  child,  are  you  crazy?"  cried  the 
widow  Jordan. 

"  Xo,  mother,  not  crazy.  Do  you  consent,  Mr.  Wedding- 
ton ?  " 

"  Consent !  of  course  I  do.  You  are  a  sensible  woman, 
Rachel." ' 

When  the  old  negro  Imd  risen  to  his  feet,  and  one  half  of 
the  horsemen  had  left  the  apartment,  the  door  of  the  lean-to 
suddenly  opened,  and,  a  revolver  in  his  either  hand,  Jordan 
stepped  directly  in  front  of  Rachel. 


296  ON     THE     BORDER. 

Weddington  sprang  a  step  or  two  backward,  and  drew  a 
pistol. 

"  Put  up  your  weapon,  Mr.  Weddington.  I  can  fire  before 
you,"  said  Jordan,  coolly.  "  I  have  twelve  shots,  and  the  first 
of  you  who  move  are  dead  men." 

"Wliat  brings  you  again  in  my  way?"  asked  Wedding- 
ton, pale  with  rage,  or  —  cowardice. 

"  That  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  send  your  men  into  the  road, 
and  go  with  me  out  of  all  hearing.  I  will  tell  you  of  some- 
thing that  will  keep  you  from  a  crime  too  terrible  to  think 
of." 

"  Ha,  ha !  Do  you  think  I  am  a  fool  ?  You  would  have  me 
where  the  odds  will  not  be  against  you,"  said  Weddington, 
half-raising  his  revolver. 

"  No,  I  would  not.     But  lower  your  pistol,  or  I  shall  fire." 

The  pistol  was  lowered,  and  Jordan  went  on,  — 

"  Send  your  men  away,  and  give  me  your  word  to  listen  to 
what  I  may  say,  and  you  shall  have  my  arms  as  a  pledge  of 
good  faith." 

"  Why  not  speak  here,  before  these  witnesses  ? "  asked 
Weddington,  his  color  changing  with  an  ill-defined  fear  of 
some  bad  tidings. 

"  Because  I  am  under  oatli  to  tell  no  one.  I  tell  you  only 
to  save  you  from  a  crime  that  would  embitter  your  vrhole 
life." 

Weddington  stood  undecided  for  a  few  moments,  then  he 
said  to  a  man  in  the  door-way,  — 

"  Sergeant,  take  all  the  men  into  the  road,  —  not  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away." 

*^  Now,  Mr.  Jordan,  where  would  you  lead  me  ?  " 


THE     C  II  I  L  D  R  i:  N     OF     ONE     FATHER.  297 

*'  To  the  barn  ;  that  is  far  enough." 

"  Very  well ;  give  me  your  weapons.     I  will  go  with  you." 

The  troop  mounted  and  rode  off,  and,  handing  Weddington 
his  revolvers,  Jordan  said,  — 

"  Good-by,  Rachel ;  good-by,  mother,"  and  led  the  way  in 
the  direction  of  the  out-building.  He  did  not  pause  till  they 
had  reached  an  open  space  not  fiir  from  the  forest ;  then, 
pointing  to  a  fallen  log,  he  said,  — 

"  Sit  there,  Mr.  Weddington,  and  you  will  hare  the  moon- 
light on  my  face.  No  man  can  deceive  me  when  I  see  his 
features." 

Without  a  word,  and,  as  if  only  mechanically  obeying  an- 
other's will,  Weddington  sat  down,  and  Jordan  began  to  pace 
to  and  fro  before  him.     In  a  moment  he  said,  — 

"  It  is  a  long  story ;  but,  if  I  tell  a  part,  I  must  tell  the 
whole.     It  concerns  you  to  understand  it  in  all  its  bearings." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Weddington,  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Well,  many  years  ago,  far  at  the  Xorth,  there  lived  an 
orphan  boy,  who  had  no  friends  or  near  relations.  He  was 
born,  it  was  thought,  in  a  poor-house  ;  at  any  rate,  he  was 
taken  from  one  when  very  young,  and  adopted  by  a  good  old 
man,  who  was  a  teacher.  The  old  man  had  no  children  of  his 
own,  and  all  his  life  had  been  a  sort  of  good  Samaritan,  going 
about  doing  good  to  the  poor.  He  gave  largely  in  charity, 
but  was  a  frugal  man,  and  so  accumulated  quite  a  little  prop- 
erty. The  boy  he  loved  as  if  he  had  been  his  own,  and  he 
educated  him,  and  made  him  his  assistant ;  but  the  lad  never 
took  to  teaching,  nor  to  any  work,  except  dressing  fine  and 
being  a  gentleman.  The  old  man  knew  this,  and  partly-  to 
get  these  fine  notions  out  of  his  head,  and  partly  to  have  some- 


298  ox     THE     BORDER. 

thing  solid  to  leave  him,  he  determined  to  buj^  a  farm,  which 
should  be  the  bo3''s  when  he  died.  He  told  him  of  this  in- 
tention, and  that  he  wouldn't  have  long  to  wait ;  for  his  time, 
he  thought,  w^as  soon  coming.  You  see,  he  had  a  foreknowl- 
edge of  his  death,  not  fixed  and  certain,  but  that  sort  of  fore- 
knowledge which  some  have  of  great  events  in  their  lives,  — 
such  men  as  live  near  enough  to  God  to  feel  the  pulses  of  the 
great  spirit-w^orld  that  is  all  about  us. 

"  I  reckon  the  old  man  lived  so.  At  any  rate,  he  knew  his 
work  here  was  about  over.  He  had  always  lived  sober  and 
natural ;  so  he  was  hale  and  hearty,  and  the  boy  thought  he 
would  last  ten  or  fifteen  yenrs  longer.  He  couldn't  endure 
the  idea  of  being  that  long  in  the  school,  and  was  determined 
not  to  go  upon  the  farm ;  but  he  encouraged  the  old  man  tc 
buy  it,  because  it  would  bring  his  moiie^^  into  the  house, 
when  he  could  get  it  into  his  hands,  make  away  to  some  far 
country,  and  live  at  his  leisurie.  He  knew  his  going  away 
would  break  the  old  man's  heart ;  but  he  didn't  heed  that, 
he  thought  onl}'  of  himself,  —  thought  only  of  himself,  when 
he  was  certain  the  old  man  loved  him  too  well  even  to  follow, 
and  try  to  get  back  the  money." 

"This  is  indeed  a  long  story,"  said  AYeddington;  "and  on 
my  life  I  can't  see  how  it  concerns  me." 

"  You  will  see,  shortly,"  said  Jordan,  pausing  in  his  meas- 
ured walk.  "  So  have  patience,  and  let  me  go  on  in  my  own 
way." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  other. 

"  Well,  the  old  man  bought  the  farm,  and,  the  day  before 
he  was  to  receive  the  deed,  drew  his  money  from  the  bank, 
and  went  to  sleep  with  it  under  his  pillow.     The  two  lived  by 


THE     C  II  I  L  D  REN     O  F     ONE     FAT  II  E  U  .  299 

themselves,  in  a  large  house,  with  only  an  old  house-keeper,  — 
and  she  was  half  deaf,  and  slept  in  the  farther  end  of  the 
buihling.  The  boy  —  he  was  twenty  then  —  waited  until 
the  old  man  was  asleep,  and  all  around  was  still,  and  then  he 
went  to  his  bed  and  began  to  search  for  the  money,  which  he 
knew  was  under  his  pillow.  It  woke  the  old  man.  He 
sprang  up,  grappled  the  boy,  and  they  struggled, — the  old 
man  not  knowing  who  it  was  for  the  darkness.  He  was  very 
strong,  and  soon  was  getting  the  better  of  the  boy ;  then  all 
at  once  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  would  be  discovered  and 
ruined,  —  so  he  drew  his  knife,  and  gave  the  old  man  his 
death-blow." 

"  It  was  a  terrible  deed,"  continued  Jordan,  pausing  and 
looking  the  other  full  in  the  face,  "  and  yet  not  half  so  terri- 
ble as  what  followed;  but  I'll  tell  you  the  whole,  that  you 
may  know  just  how  much  and  how  little  to  blame  liim." 

"The  old  man  was  dead,  —  dead,  but  living;  living  in  that 
room,  and  knowing  that  his  own  adopted  son  had  killed  him. 
The  boy  thought  of  this,  and  the  thought  overcame  him.  He 
sank  down  on  the  floor,  and  groaned  in  agony,  and  something 
within  —  it  was  his  good  angel  —  said  to  him,  — 

"  '  Go  out.     Confess  the  crime,  and  take  the  consequences.' 

"But  in  a  moment  the  devil  that  had  led  him  on  to  the  deed 
came  back,  and  said,  — 

"  ^  What's  done  can't  be  undone.  Cover  up  the  crime,  and 
profit  all  you  can  by  it.' 

"  Then  the  boy  set  about  hiding  the  trace  of  his  hand  in  tlie 
dreadful  business. 

"The  bag  of  money  he  put  u])  the  chimney,  and,  catching 
some  of  the  old  man's  blood  in  a  basin,  sprinkled  it  along  the 


300  ox     THE     BORDER. 

stairs,  and  out  at  the  front  way.  Then  he  fixed  the  outer 
door  so  that  the  house  would  seem  to  have  been  entered 
from  the  outside.  This  took  an  hour,  and  it  was  as  much  as 
he  could  do  to  got  through  it,  for,  at  his  every  step,  the  spirit  of 
the  old  man  followed  him.  It  glared  on  him  out  of  the  dark- 
ness when  he  kneeled  down  to  catch  the  blood  that  was  flow- 
ing from  the  body,  and  went  with  him,  step  by  step,  down 
the  stairs,  through  the  hall,  and  out  at  the  door-way;  and 
there  it  stood  right  before  him  in  the  moonlight,  looking  so 
sad  and  pitiful,  and  yet  so  yearning  and  so  forgiving,  that  the 
boy  was  tempted  to  drive  the  knife  into  his  own  heart,  and  go 
at  once  to  the  great  accounting.  But  he  did  not.  Something 
held  his  hand,  and  said.  — 

"  ^  Don't  be  weak  now.  Finish  what  you've  undertaken.' 
"  Going  back  into  the  house,  he  burned  his  bloody  clothes, 
and,  it  being  still  early  in  the  evening,  put  on  another  suit, 
and  went  off  to  the  house  of  a  young  woman,  whom  he  was 
to  have  married.  He  stayed  there  all  night,  and,  it  appearing 
that  he  was  away  when  the  deed  was  done,  he  was  not  even 
suspected  when  the  cook  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the 
morning. 

'^  Then  began  his  retribution.  The  old  man  was  dead  ;  his 
work  was  over,  or,  rather,  he  had  gone  to  work  where  work 
is  only  playing.  But  the  j^oung  man  was  haunted  by  a  devil 
that  gave  him  no  rest,  but  followed  him  day  and  night  like 
his  own  shadow,  —  only  it  always  went  before,  keeping  be- 
tween him  and  the  sunlight.  Day  and  night  it  was  at  his 
elbow,  and  day  and  night  he  kept  doing  over  again  the  mur- 
der, and  seeing  the  old  man  as  he  saw  him  in  the  dark  room, 
and  out  there  in  the  moonlight. 


T  II  !•:     CHILDREN     OF     ONE     FATHER.  301 

"  At  last,  he  could  endure  this  no  longer,  and  he  tried  to 
Ivill  himself,  but  he  couldn't.  The  same  devil  again  held  his 
hand,  and  again  spoke  to  him,  this  time  saying  that  he  could 
not  die  till  he  had  expiated  his  crime  by  long  years  of  suffer- 
ing. 

"  He  thought  the  old  man  haunted  the  house,  and  often 
would  wake  up  at  night  and  fancy  he  was  standing  by  his 
bedside.  Then  he  would  rush  out  into  the  open  air,  and  go 
wandering  round  until  morning.  But  nothing  gave  him  any 
rest,  and  at  last  even  the  sight  of  his  best  friends  became 
a  torment.  He  determined  to  go  away,  and,  in  some  strange 
IDlaee,  try  to  escape  the  memory  of  his  crime  and  his  terrible 
visions.  He  sold  the  house  and  the  school,  —  for  the  old  man 
had  left  him  all,  —  and  then  went  oif  on  a  journey.  For 
a  year  he  wandered  about  from  place  to  place,  and  then  came 
to  Lexington,  when  the  court  was  in  session. 

"A  middle-aged  man  was  there  attending  court,  with  a 
3'oung  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  some  years  without 
children.  The  young  man  got  acquainted  with  them,  and  the 
Kentuckian,  who  was  a  desperate  hand  at  those  things,  led 
him  deeply  into  drinking  and  gaming.  Well,  he  won  the 
young  man's  money,  and  the  young  man  won  his  \xiie ;  and 
so  one  crime  was  made  to  punish  the  other.  This  was  about 
a  year  before  you  were  born,  Jackson  Weddington." 

Weddington's  face  turned  to  a  livid  hue,  but  he  said  noth- 
ing, and  Jordan  wxnt  on,  — 

"  The  poor  woman,  however,  wasn't  so  much  to  blame, —  he 
told  me  she  was  not.  He  had  the  power  over  her  that  a 
snake  lias  over  a  bird.  Often  she  tried  to  get  away,  but 
could  not,  and  he  kept  the  spell  upon  her  until  she  died." 

26 


302  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  It  was  horrible,"  now  stammered  Weddington.  "  Had 
the  man  no  soul  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  a  soul ;  hut  one  hardened  and  encrusted  with 
crime.  It's  the  nature  of  sin,  Weddington,"  answered  Jor- 
dan. "We  open  the  door  to  one  devil,  and  seven  come  in, 
worse  than  the  first.  This  was  worse  than  the  murder.  That 
was  sudden  and  unthought  of ;  this  he  planned,  gloated  over, 
and,  for  3"ears  and  years,  rolled  like  a  sweet  morsel  under  his 
tongue. 

"  Well,  the  Kentuckian  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  and  about 
a  year  afterward  a  son  was  born  in  his  family.  This  seemed 
to  change  his  whole  nature.  He  threw  off  his  bad  habits, 
and  became  a  man.  He  knew  his  wife  did  not  love  him;  but 
this  gave  him  something  to  live  for. 

"But  the  ^STortherner  still  darkened  his  door-way,  and  one 
day  was  seen  by  a  servant  in  doubtful  relations  with  his  mis- 
tress. The  negro  had  been  brought  up  with  his  master,  and, 
presuming  on  their  long  connection,  he  cautioned  him  about 
having  his  friend  longer  in  the  familj^  His  master  took 
offence,  and  sold  him  ;  but  the  next  year  the  negro  came  back 
to  the  plantation,  and  then  told  the  overseer  the  whole  facts ; 
and  these  he  had  not  disclosed  to  his  master. 

"  The  overseer  at  once  told  the  Kentuckian ;  for  the  North- 
erner was  still  at  the  mansion.  He  stormed,  and  affected  to 
disbelieve  the  storj^,  and  the  two  parted  in  anger ;  but  that 
night  the  Kentuckian  charged  the  crime  upon  his  wife.  She 
confessed  it,  and  a  duel  between  the  two  men  followed.  They 
fought  with  swords  in  the  billiard-room  in  which  they  had 
gambled  together,  and  the  Northerner  disarmed  the  Kentuck- 
ian.    He   gave  him  his  life,  and   then   left   the   plantation. 


THE     C  II  I  L  1>  K  K  N     OF     O  N  K     FATHER.  303 

The  other  went  away  tlie  next  day,  and  the  woman  fell  dan- 
gerously sick.  While  she  was  on  her  death-bed,  and  he  knew 
it,  the  Northerner  came  back  to  the  house,  and  told  her  to  rob 
h^  husband.     She  did  so,  and  in  a  little  time  she  died. 

"  But  retribution  again  followed.  His  ill-gotten  gains  went 
in  a  night,  and,  after  twenty  years  of  wTetched  life,  he  died, 
mourned  only  by  his  innocent  daughter." 

Jordan  paused,  and  for  a  time,  paced  to  and  fro  in  silence. 
Then  stopping  directly  before  Weddington,  he  said,  — 

"  That  man  was  your  father,  his  daughter  is  your  sister ; 
and  now  tell  me  if  you  will  ifot  thank  me  for  this  through  all 
eternity  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  other's  shoulder,  as  he  said 
this,  and  his  voice  was  strangely  soft  and  musical. 

Weddington's  head  sank  upon  his  breast,  and,  in  hollow 
tones,  he  muttered,  —  ^ 

"  It  can't  be  true,  —  it  can't  be  true  !  " 

"  It  ^5  true.  He  told  me  when  he  w\is  dying.  Look  at 
your  sister,  and  see  if  she  is  not  3'ourself,  —  only  more  of 
her  mother,  and  less  of  her  father.  Think  of  all  this,  Wed- 
dington, and  remember,  retribution  followed  him  ;  let  it  not 
follow  you.     Now  I  must  go  ;    give  me  the  pistols." 

Weddington  mechanically  held  out  the  revolvers.  Jordan 
took  them,  and,  turning  away,  was  soon  lost  in  the  forest.  A 
moment  later  a  shrill  whistle  was  heard  in  the  wood.  It  was 
answered  by  a  low  whinny,  and  soon  afterward  a  horse's  hoofs 
echoed  along  the  narrow  road  which  led  to  the  far-away 
southerri  mountains. 


CHAPTER   XXYI 


MIDXIGHT  DUTY. 


HE  traces  of  Jopdan's  subsequent  career  are  dim  and 
shadowy.  He  was  never  again  seen  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  cabin,  and  to  only  a  very  few  was  it  known 
that  he  had  not  left  Kentucky.  How  and  where 
he  lived  was  a  profound  mystery,  even  to  Bent  and  the 
half-dozen  members  of  his  regiment  with  whom  Jordan's  self- 
imposed  mission  brought  him  in  almost  nightly  contact. 

On  one  occasion  a  small  party  of  Ohio  soldiers,  crossing  the 
mountain  on  a  hunting  expedition,  soon  after  the  army  en- 
camped in  the  vicinity  of  Piketon,  came  upon  a  dilapidated 
hut,  buried  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest.  It  was  a 
rude  shanty  of  rough  logs,  and  had  been  the  temporary  home 
of  some  hunter,  who,  before  the  war,  had  trapped  for  furs 
in  that  wild  region ;  but  now  was  so  fallen  into  decay  as 
scarcely  to  afford  shelter  to  the  untamed  creatures  that  fre- 
quent the  dense  thickets  of  those  well-nigh  inaccessible  moun- 
tains. The  soldiers  were  about  to  pass  the  place  without 
special  notice,  when  their  attention  was  arrested  by  a  thin 
column  of  smoke  curling  lazily  up  from  the  half-ruined  chim- 
ney. Cautiously  approaching  the  hut,  they  looked  in  at  the 
open  door-way.  The  cabin  was  without  door  or  window, 
(301) 


MIDNIGHT     DUTY.  305 

and  the  cold  wind,  which  swept  through  the  interstices  in 
the  w\ills,  half-filled  the  desolate  room  with  the  smoke  of  a  fire 
that  was  smouldering  on  the  decayed  hearth  ;  Lut  throu;^h 
the  cloudy  atmosphere  the  soldiers  soon  got  a  view  of  the 
occupants  of  the  cabin.  They  were  a  man  and  a  horse, 
stretched  on  a  bed  of  dry  leaves  and  sleeping  soundly.  The 
man  lay  near  the  fire,  his  head  resting  on  the  neck  of  the 
horse,  and  his  body  extended  between  the  fore-legs  of  the 
animal,  one  of  which  was  coiled  about  his  waist,  as  if  it  were 
the  arm  of  a  mother  encircling  a  sleeping  child.  His  skin 
was  densely  black,  but  he  had  straight,  European  features, 
and  long  gray  hair  that  might  have  belonged  to  a  white 
man. 

One  of  the  soldiers  touching  him  on  the  shoulder,  the  man 
and  the  horse  rose  to  their  feet  at  the  same  instant. 

The  man  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  suddenly  drew  a  re- 
volver, but  as  suddenly  he  put  it  back  into  his  belt,  and  said, — 

"  Ah,  dar's  no  far  ob  you !  Ole  'Zeke  know  you,  —  you'm 
ob  Gunnel  Cranor's  regimen'." 

"  And  who  are  you,  and  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked 
one  of  the  soldiers. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  "  exclaimed  the  negro.  "  I'se  ole 
'Zeke  —  friend  to  de  Unions.  I  scouts  it  fur  Cap'n  Bent  ob 
de  ole  Fourteenth.  You  ax  him,  an'  if  you  wont  tuck  de  word 
ob  Cap'n  Dick,  jess  you  ax  de  gineral.  He'm  yeard  ob  ole 
'Zeke,  dough  he  haint  de  honor  ob  his  pussonal  'quaintance." 

"  Well,"  now  said  another  of  the  soldiers,  "  come  with  us, 
and  we'll  give  the  '  gineral  de  honor  ob  your  pussonal  'quaint- 
ance.' The  fact  is,  old  man,  we  can't  allow  prowlers  so  near 
the  lines." 

26  * 


306  ON     THE     BORDER. 

The  old  black  hesitated  a  moment,  then  he  answered,  — 

"  Dar  haint  only  free  ob  you,  so  'Zeke  haint  obleeged  to 
go ;  but  he  will,  jess  to  keep  de  peace,  —  only  you  sot  out  to 
onct,  case  he  muss  be  twenty  mile  away  by  midnight.  Tuck 
l;im  to  onct  to  Cap'n  Bent,  —  Cap'n  Dick,  of  de  Fourteenth 
Kaintucky." 

"  We  don't  know  Captain  Bent.  "We'll  take  you  to  the 
colonel  himself." 

''  'Scuse  me,  gemmen,  but  bein'  we'se  too  fur  away,  it'd  tuck 
too  long,  and  me  and  de  mar  muss  get  some  sleep  ag'in  de 
night's  journey.  You  jess  go  to  Cap'n  Dick,  —  'Zeke  wont 
go  no  whar  else." 

The  resolute  manner  of  the  negro  decided  the  soldiers. 
They  conducted  him  at  once  to  the  head-quarters  of  the  Ken- 
tucky regiment;  but,  to  their  surprise,  both  Captain  Bent 
and  Colonel  Moore  at  once  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  old 
negro.  "When  he  was  at  last  taken  into  the  tent  of  the  latter 
officer,  Captain  Bent  said,  — 

"]^ow,  old  man,  speak  the  truth.  Who  are  you,  and  why 
are  you  hanging  about  the  camp  ?  " 

"  Jess  'case,  I  couldn't  git  inside,  Massa  Dick.  You  sees, 
I  hadn't  de  word,  aiid  widout  dat  you  wont  leff  in  eben  a  ole 
darky." 

"  And  why  did  jen  want  to  come  in  ?  " 

"  Jess  to  git  dat  'backer  j^ou  promise  ole  'Zeke,  dat  night 
he  cotched  you  down  dar  by  Peach  Orchard." 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Bent,  springing  to  his  feet,  and 
going  closely  to  the  negro.     "  How  dare  you  come  here  ?  " 

The  negro  laughed,  as  he  answered,  — 

*'  Why,  what  wuss  am  it  comin'  yere  dan  layin'  out  on  de 


51  I  1)  N  I  G  II  T     D  U  T  Y  .  307 

nioimtain  ?  It'm  full  of  rebs,  jNIassa  Dick.  Dar's  a  nest  ob 
'em  not  twenty  mile  away,  and  ef  you'll  tuck  fifty  calvary, 
and  foller  ole  'Zeke,  you'll  liab  'em  all  'fore  mornin'." 

"What  do  you  say,  colonel?"  asked  Bent,  turning  to 
another  officer.  "  Can  I  have  the  men  ?  The  negro  can  be 
trusted." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Colonel  Moore. 

"An  old  fellow  I've  known  since  I  was  born,"  answered- 
Bent.     "  IM  trust  my  life  with  him." 

"  Then  why  is  he  in  danger  in  our  lines  ?  "  asked  Moore, 
with  a  look  of  incredulity. 

"  I'll  tell  you." 

Bent  took  the  other  aside,  and  for  a  while  the  two 
conversed  together  in  whispers.  Then  Colonel  Moore  ap- 
proached the  negro,  and,  taking  him  cordially  by  the  hand, 
said, — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  safe  ;  but  the  blood-hounds  are  after 
you.     It's  a  dangerous  game  you  are. playing." 

"I  know,  Massa  Moore,"  answered  the  black;  "dar'ra 
danger  eberywhar ;  but  it'm  all  one  to  a  ole  darky.  All  he 
wants  am  to  die  in  de  harness." 

]\[oore  wrung  his  hand  for  a  moment  without  speaking; 
then  he  said,  — 

"  Bent  shall  fgo  with  you.  Meet  him  somewhere  outside 
the  lines  after  nightfall." 

"  Bery  well,"  said  the  other.  "Now  'Zeke'll  go.  lie  don't 
tuck  obor  strong  to  any  sogers,  —  rebs  or  Unions." 

The  old  man  was  soon  conducted  outside  of  the  army  lines, 
and  not  long  after  dark  was  met  at  an  appointed  j^lace  by 
Captain  Bent  and  the  fifty  horsemen.     In  the  morning  the 


308  ON    THE     BORDER. 

party  returned  without  the  guide,  but  Avith  a  score  or  more  of 
rebel  guerillas,  whom  they  had  captured  at  midnight. 

A  few  nights  later,  as  a  sentinel  was  pacing  his  round 
on  the  outer  picket  line  of  tlie  army,  he  caught  sight  of  a  man 
moving  quickly  along  the  edge  of  the  wood  which  skirted  the 
foot  of  the  mountain. 

"  Halt !  "  he  cried.     "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 
■    "A  friend,"  was  the  answer. 

"Advance,  friend,  and  give  the  countersign,"  said  the 
sentry. 

"  Freedom  for  Kentucky." 

"All  right,"  answered  the  soldier.  "I've  orders  from 
the  captain.  Take  my  musket  and  stand  guard.  I'll  have 
him  here  in  ten  minutes." 

The  old  negro  —  for  it  was  he  —  mounted  guard,  and  soon 
the  soldier  returned  with  the  officer.  Leading  him  in  among 
the  trees,  the  old  man  talked  for  a  while  with  him  earnestly. 
Then,  saying  "  I'll  be  dar,"  he  turned  away  and  disappeared 
in  the  darkness. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Bent  left  camp  with  a  part}'-  of  horse- 
men. In  the  morning  he  returned  with  another  score  of  rebel 
guerillas,  whom  he  had  surprised  and  captured  at  their  hiding- 
place  on  the  mountains. 

Scarcely  a  night  followed,  for  nearly  a  month,  that  the  same 
old  man  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  the  same  picket- 
station,  always  giving  the  words,  "  Freedom  for  Kentucky," 
and  always  walking  the  sentry's  beat  while  the  latter  was 
away  in  search  of  his  superior  officer.  Some  midnight  move- 
ment always  followed  these  visits,  and  soon  the  region  was 
cleared  of  the  roving  bands  of  marauders,  who,  issuing  fi'om 


MIDNIGHT     DUTY.  309 

their  liiding-placos  among  tlie  mountain.s,  had  descended  into 
the  valley's,  and  spread  terror  and  death  among  tlie  defence- 
less dwellers  of  the  district. 

Toward  the  close  of  February,  the  midnight  visits  of  the 
old  black  suddenly  ceased,  and  Moore  said  to  Bent,  — 

"What  has  become  of  him?  —  not,  I  hope,  taken  by  the 
rebels." 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  Bent ;  "  but  he's  off  on  a  desper- 
ate expedition,  —  gone  into  the  rebel  camp  at  Pound  Gap. 
If  they  suspect  him  he's  a  dead  man,  certain." 

A  fortnight  later,  a  white  man  presented  himself  at  the 
line  of  pickets  held  by  the  Fourteenth  Kentucky,  giving  the 
old  negro's  password,  "  Freedom  for  Kentuck}^,"  and  demand- 
ing an  interview  with  Captain  Bent,  of  that  i*egiment. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Wliar's  the  old  man  ?  How  came  you 
by  his  countersign  ? "  asked  the  sentry,  who  had  often  met 
the  old  negro  on  his  midnight  visits. 

"  Ah  !  my  name  ar'  Bradslaw,"  said  the  man,  speaking  with 
a  strong  nasal  drawl,  and  turning  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes  in 
the  moonlight.  "They  call  me  Parson  Bradslaw,  ah,  ^case, 
ah,  Pm  one  of  the  Lord's  chosen,  ah,  chosen  to  give  milk  to 
his  babes,  ah,  strong  meat  to  his  older  children,  ah.  The 
negro  man  "  — 

He  was  going  on,  but  w^as  here  interrupted  by  the  soldier, 
who  assured  him,  in  not  very  courteous  terms,  that  he  was  a 
liar  and  a  hypocrite,  to  boot,  —  the  said  JBradslaw  being,  to 
his  certain  knowledge,  then  an  inmate  of  the  jail  at  Piketon. 

In  vain  the  parson  insisted  that  the  Bradslaws  were  a  nu- 
merous family,  and  that  more  than  one  of  them  had  been 
servants  of  the  Lord,  and  preachers  of  his  gospel,  and  in  vain 


310  O  If     THE     B  O  R  D  P:  R  . 

he  protested  against  being  taken  within  the  lines,  and  bogged 
to  be  allowed  to  meet  Captain  Bent  there  "b}-  moonlight 
alone."  The  soldier  was  deaf  to  both  remonstrance  and  en- 
treaty, and,  calling  to  a  companion  to  relieve  him  of  sentry- 
dut}",  he  marched  the  reluctant  parson  off  to  the  head-quar- 
ters of  the  regiment. 

At  the  quarters  of  Colonel  Moore,  a  number  of  ofiScers, 
among  them  Captain  Bent  and  the  colonel  commanding,  were 
assembled  to  deliberate  on  some  intended  movement  of  the 
army,  when  the  canting  parson  was  brought  before  them.  As 
he  stalked  into  the  centre  of  the  tent,  and  the  light  fell  full 
on  his  face,  they  had  a  view  of  his  personal  appearance.  It 
was  entirely  nondescript,  and  of  a  character  never  seen  east 
of  the  Cumberland  mountains. 

He  was  tall,  above  six  feet  in  height,  with  long,  stooping 
shoulders,  ajid  gaunt,  bony  arms  that  extended  nearly  down 
to  his  knees.  On  his  head,  when  he  entered,  was  a  broad, 
slouched  hat,  half  hiding  his  face ;  but  this  he  soon  re- 
moved, revealing  a  pair  of  deep-gray  eyes,  a  hea^y,  projecting 
brow,  and  a  dark,  sallow  skin,  begrimed  apparently  with  the 
smoke  of  a  curing-house.  His  beard  was  not  heavy,  but  long 
and  intensely  black,  and  his  hair  was  also  long  and  black,  and 
came  forward  of  his  ears  in  an  exact  line  with  the  outer 
angle  of  his  eyes,  unclij)ped  by  shears,  except  straight  across, 
half  an  inch  above  his  eyebrows.  He  was  dressed  in  .the 
common  butternut  jean  of  the  district,  his  coat  much  too 
long  in  the  skirts,  and  his  trousers  much  too  short  in  the 
legs ;  and  as  he  turned  to  the  assembled  officers,  and,  de- 
scribing  a   half-circle  with    his    enormous  beaver,  addressed 


:\I  I  D  N  I  G  IIT     D  LT  Y.  311 

them  in  a  slirill    nasal    drawl,   lie   was  a  sound  to  hear,  as 
well  as  "a  sij^dit  to  beliold." 

"  My  friends,  ah,"  he  said,  "  I  must  call  ye  friends,  ah 
—  for  I  ar  one  of  the  anointed,  and  ye  is  a-wieldin'  the 
sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon.  Ye  is  a-fightin'  the  bat- 
tles of  the  right  ag'in  the  hosts  of  Belial  ;  and  so  ye  is  my 
friends,  ah,  ye  is  my  friends  ;  but  it  is  my  duty,  ah,  —  be- 
in'  as  I  ar'  a  free  citizen  of  old  Kaintuck,  —  it  is  my  duty, 
ah,  to  let  ye  know,  ah,  this  shinin'  evenin',  ah,  that  ye  is 
a  doin'  violence  to  the  great  principles  to  w'ich  I  do  be- 
lieve, ah,  —  principles  w'ich  rest,  ah,  at  the  very  foundation 
of  all  things,  —  w'ich  is  the  chief  corner-stone  of  all  human 
freedom,  ah,  — w'ich  will  stand  when  man  that  is  born  of 
woman,  with  a  few  days  to  live,  w'ich  is  full  of  trouble, 
shall  liev  gone  back  to  dust,  —  shall  hey  turned  inter  the 
unresolvable  elements,  of  w'ich,  ah,  Shakespeare  wrote,  ah. 
It  is  my  duty,  ah.  to  say  unto  you  that  you  hev  done  vio- 
lence to  them  great  principles  for  the  w'ich  our  foreancestors 
font,  bled,  and  died,  under  William  the  Conqueror,  and  Wil- 
liam Penn,  and  loikewise  under  Gineral  Jackson  at  the  battle 
of  Bunker  Hill.  Ye  hev  done  violence  to  them  great  princi- 
ples, ah,  by  a  draggin^  me  3'ere, — yere  among  yer  men  of 
war,  —  me.  a  messenger  of  peace,  a  ambassador  of  the  Lord, 
a  minister  of  the  Gospil  in  good  standin'.  And  now,  with 
all  due  deference  to  the  presence  into  w'ich  I  am  fotched,  ah, 
I  must  ax,  ah,  that  ye  let  me  go  the  way  I  come,  —  that  ye 
let  me  return  to  my  flock  upon  the  mountains,  —  my  flock 
that  ar'  a-strayiu'  without  a  guide,  ah,  —  that  ar'  a-nibblin' 
the  short  grass,  and  lookin'  with  strainin'  eyes  and  bleatin' 
hearts  for  thar  shepherd  as  haint  forthcomin'." 


312  ON     THE     BORDER. 

The  officers  listened  with  ill-restrained  mirth  during  the 
delivery  of  this  unique  harangue,  but  at  its  close  they  burst 
into  a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  and,  as  soon  as  he  could, 
Bent  shouted,  — 

"  Why  did  j^ou  come  to  the  lines,  and  who  the  devil  are 
you  ?  " 

Without  turning  his  head,  the  preacher  rolled  his  great 
gray  eyes  upon  Bent,  and,  in  the  same  sanctimonious  drawl, 
answered,  — 

'•  I  ar',  Richard  Bent,  ah,  what  I  fears  ye  never  will  be,  — 

a  chile  of  the  Lord,  a  sarvint  of  the  Most  High  ;  and  I  ar^ 

loikewise,  ah,  a  watchman  on  the  walls  of  Zion,  a  shepherd 

of  Israel,  tending  the  Lord's  flock  that  is  a  wanderin'  in  the 

wilderness  ;  and  as  sich  it  ar'  my  duty,  ah,  to  tell  ye,  ah,  that 

t 
ye  is  one  of  the  profane,  ah,  —  for  out  of  ye  flows  words  that 

shock   the   ear,    and   into  ye  flows   whiskey  that   ruins   the 

stomach,  and'll  bring  ye  to  an  untimely  eend,  if  ye  don't  turn 

from  yer  ways,  take  to  readin'  yer  Bible,  and  drinkin'  spring 

water,  ah !  " 

Bent  joined  less  heartilj^  in  the  laugh  that  followed ;  but  he 
soon  again  demanded,  — 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  brought  you  here  ?" 

The  preacher  now  drew  a  roll  of  paper  from  an  inside 
pocket,  and  his  whole  manner  suddenly,  and,  as  it  were,  un- 
consciously, changed,  as  he  quickly  answered,  — 

"  My  name  ar'  Bradslaw ;  they  call  me  Parson  Bradslaw, 
and  I  ar'  yere  to  do  ye  a  good  turn,  —  mayhap,  to  save  Kain- 
tucky." 

As  he  handed  the  roll  to  Bent,  the  colonel  commanding 
said  to  the  stranger,  — 


M  I  D  N  I  r;  H  T    I)  i;  t  y.  31.'j 

"  Speak  the  truth,  my  friend,  —  you  are  not  Bradslaw  ;  we 
have  him  safe  under  lock  and  key  at  the  village." 

Resuming  his  drawling  tone,  the  preacher  answered,  — 

"  That  may  be,  gineral.  Thar  war  but  one  Adam,  and  he 
war  shot  out  o'  Paradise.  Thar  war  but  one  Noah,  and 
he  war  saved  in  the  deluge.  Thar  war  but  one  Jacob,  and  he 
wrestled  all  night  with  tlie  angel,  and  did  prevail,  though  hi>; 
withers  was  unstrung,  and  he  went  a  cripple  all  his  life 
arterwards.  But  thar  is  two  Bradslaws.  One,  like  Esau,  has 
sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  and  in  yonder  jail 
is  a-gittin'  the  due  reward  of  his  doin's.  The  other  is  yere 
afore  ye,  and  he  ar'  a  cl'ar,  free  man,  as  would,  this  night,  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  kentry ;  as  M'ould  lay  down  his  life, 
for  the  time  ar'  nigh,  the  time  of  w'ich  the  Scripture  speaks, 
—  the  time  as  tries  men's  souls.  Ah,  and  he  reckons  we 
orter  all  to  do  our  duty  to  our  kentry,  ah,  'fore  thet  time 
comes,  thet  time,  and  the  great  cpn-flag-a-ration  of  the  uni- 
verse —  ah  "  — 

He  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  Bent,  who,  rising  to  his 
feet,  and  holding  the  open  paper  before  him,  said,  in  an 
angry  way,  — 

"  Tell  me,  you  canting  devil,  where  did  you  get  this,  and 
where  is  the  man  that  made  it  ?  " 

"  Richard  Bent,"  said  the  preacher,  again  rolling  his  eyes 
upon  him,  with  a  look  half  of  reproof  and  half  of  concealed 
merriment,  "  ye  is  one  of  the  profane  !  But  I  will  answer 
yer  question.  This  hand  made  it,  this  foot  trod  every  rod  of 
thet  sile,  —  trod  it  thet  ye  might  tread  it,  and  not  stumble  ; 
and  ye  kin  go  the  way  I  went,  and  come  in  and  go  out  in 
safety ;  ye  kin,  as  sure  as  my  name  ar'  Bradslaw." 
27 


314  ON     THE     BORDER. 

Bent  grasped  the  preacher  by  the  liand,  and  was  about 
to  speak ;  but,  at  a  significant  look  from  him,  he  turned  away, 
and,  throwing  the  paper  upon  the  table,  said,  — 

"  Colonel,  here  is  a  complete  map  of  the  rebel  position, 
with  full  directions  how  to  turn  it,  and  how  to  bag  them  all 
within  forty-eight  hours." 

As  each  one  in  the  room  clustered  eagerly  about  the  table, 
Bent  turned  to  the  preacher  and  spoke  a  few  hurried  words 
in  a  whisper. 

After  a  long  and  close  scrutiny  of  the  paper,  the  colonel 
commanding  looked  up,  and  said  to  Bent,  — 

"  Do  you  think  this  can  be  relied  on  ?  " 

"  Implicitly,"  answered  Bent ;  "  he  has  been  among  them 
for  a  fortnight." 

"  Well,  my  man,"  continued  the  colonel,  looking  round  for 
the  preacher.  He  suddenly  paused,  for  that  individual  was 
no  longer  visible.  "  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  added.  "  Bring  him 
here ;  I  must  question  him." 

"  Well,  you  can't,  colonel,"  said  Bent ;  "  I  gave  him  the 
word,  and  he's  beyond  the  lines  by  this  time.  Don't  you 
know  ?     It  was  Jordan  ! " 


CHAPTER    XXVII 


THE   POUND    GAP  EXPEDITION. 


OUND  Gap  is  a  wild  and  irregular  opening  in  the 
Cumberland  Mountains,  about  fort^'-five  miles  south- 
west of  Piketon.  It  is  the  only  channel  of  wagon 
communication  between  the  southerly  portions  of 
Virginia  and  Kentucky,  and  takes  its  name  from  a  fertile  tract 
of  meadow-laud  which  skirts  the  southerly  base  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  is  enclosed  by  a  narrow  stream  called  Pound  Fork. 
In  the  early  history  of  the  district  this  mountain  locality  was 
the  home  of  a  tribe  of  Indians,  who  made  periodical  expedi- 
tions into  Virginia  for  plunder.  Keturning  with  the  stolen 
cattle  of  the  settlers,  they  pastured  them  in  this  meadow  en- 
closure, and  hence  it  acquired  the  name  of  the  "  Pound," 
which  in  time  it  gave  to  both  the  Gap  and  the  streamlet. 

In  this  "  Pound,"  and  on  the  summit  of  the  gorge  through 
which  the  road  passes,  the  rebels  had  built  log  huts,  capable 
of  quartering  nearly  a  thousand  men  ;  and  across  the  opening 
of  the  Gap  they  had  erected  a  formidable  breastwork,  that 
completely  blocked  the  passage,  and  which  five  hundred  men 
could  hold  against  five  thousand. 

For  several  weeks  Pound  Gap  had  been  garrisoned  by  about 
six   hundred    rebel   militia,  under   a   Major  Thompson,  and 

(315) 


310  ON     T  H  K     B  O  K  I)  K  R  , 

thougn  incapable  of  effective  service  in  tlie  field,  they  had 
held  this  gateway  into  Virginia,  and  maintained  a  constant 
reign  of  terror  among  the  Union  citizens  of  all  the  lower 
counties.  Issuing  from  their  stronghold  on  the  mountains, 
small  parties  of  this  gang  would  descend  into  the  valleys,  rob 
and  murder  the  peaceable  inhabitants,  and,  before  pursuit 
could  be  begun,  would  be  again  behind  their  breastworks.' 
Many  of  these  predatory  bands  had  been  captured,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  vigilance  of  Jordan,  and  the  ceaseless  activity 
of  the  Kentucky  cavalry  ;  but  as  soon  as  one  party  was  made 
prisoners  another  would  appear  in  the  valley,  until  it  was  evi- 
dent that  the  only  way  to  effectually  stop  their  incursions  was 
to  break  up  their  nest  on  the  mountain.  This  Garfield  had 
long  determined  to  do.  He  had  waited  only  for  reliable  in- 
formation as  to  the  strength  and  position  of  the  guerillas,  and 
for  a  definite  description  of  the  route  to  be  taken  to  get  in  the 
rear  of  their  intrenchments. 

This  information  the  map  of  Jordan  supplied,  and  it  added 
a  significant  fact  which  decided  Garfield  to  at  once  set  on  foot 
the  intended  expedition. 

On  the  margin  of  the  map,  in  Jordan's  own  writing,  were 
these  words :  — 

"General  Marshall  has  issued  an  order  for  a  grand  muster 
of  the  rebel  militia  on  the  fifteenth  of  March.  They  are  to 
meet  at  the  'Pound,'  in  the  rear  of  their  intrenchments,  and 
it  is  expected  they  will  muster  in  sufficient  strength  to  enter 
Kentucky,  and  drive  the  Union  forces  before  them.'' 

It  was  this  indorsement  only  which  had  enabled  Bent  to 
penetrate  the  disguise  of  the  counterfeit  preacher. 

Garfield  at  once  determined  to  forestall  the  intended  gather- 


THE     POUND     G  A  I'     !•:  X  1'  K  I)  1  T  I  O  \  .  317 

ing,  and  to  disperse  the  entire  swann  of  guerillas.  With  two 
hundred  and  twenty  of  the  Fortieth  Ohio,  under  Colonel  Cra- 
nor;  two  hundred  of  the  Forty-second  Ohio,  under  Major 
Pardee ;  one  hundred  and  eighty  of  the  Twenty-second  Ken- 
tucky, under  Major  Cook ;  and  a  hundred  cavalry,  under 
Major  McLaughlin,  he  set  out  on  the  following  morning,  with 
three  days'  rations  in  the  haversacks  of  the  men,  and  a  quan- 
tity of  provisions  packed  on  the  backs  of  mules. 

The  roads  were  deep  in  mud,  and  the  countless  rivulets 
which  ramif}^  through  this  mountain  region  were  filled  with 
ice,  and  swollen  into  rushing  torrents  ;  but  pressing  on  over  the 
rough  roads,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  drenching  rain,  the  little 
army,  late  on  the  night  of  the  second  day,  reached  Elkhorn 
Creek, — a  small  stream  which  flows  along  tlie  northern  base 
of  the  mountains,  and  empties  into  the  Big  Sandy,  only  two 
miles  below  the  rebel  position.  There  they  went  into  camp 
on  the  wet  ground,  and  waited  for  the  morning. 

Garfield's  plan  was  to  send  his  small  party  of  cavalry  up 
the  road  to  make  a  demonstration  against  the  enemy's  in- 
trenchments,  and  to  engage  his  attention,  while,  with  the 
infantry,  he  should  climb  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain,  and, 
filing  along  a  narrow  ledge  of  rocks  on  its  summit,  reach  the 
gap,  and  attack  the  flank  of  the  rebel  position.  To  prove 
successful,  the  movement  must  be  executed  with  the  utmost 
secrecy,  and  a  guide  must  be  obtained  to  guide  the  infantry 
over  the  mountain.  To  these  ends  every  male  resident  of 
the  vicinity  was  brought  into  camp,  where  he  was  detained 
to  prevent  his  carrying  information  to  the  enemy,  and 
questioned  as  to  some  practicable  route  to  the  rear  of 
his    intrenchments.       There  was    no  route.      The    mountain 


318  O  N     T  H  P:     B  O  K  D  E  R . 

was  steep,  and  in  some  places  precipitous,  and  it  was  tan- 
gled with  dense  thickets,  obstructed  with  fallen  logs,  and 
covered  with  huge  boulders,  which,  coated  with  ice  and  snow, 
formed  an  almost  impassable  barrier  to  the  passage  of  any 
living  thing  save  the  panther  and  the  catamount.  But  if, 
in  the  face  of  all  these  obstacles,  the  mountain  summit  were 
at  last  gained  by  the  adventurous  band,  thej'-  would  be  obliged 
to  thread  for  a  long  distance  a  narrow  ledge,  buried  three  feet 
deep  in  yielding  snow,  where  one  false  step  would  be  death, 
and  ten  men  could  dispute  the  passage  of  an  army. 

Though  tempted  with  liberal  offers  of  money,  not  one  of 
the  "  natives  "  would  undertake  to  guide  the  expedition. 
In  these  circumstances,  Garfield  laid  down  at  midnight  on 
the  floor  of  a  wretched  log  shanty  near  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  prospect  was  in  no  way  encouraging ;  in  fact,  it 
seemed  that  Jordan  had  carefully  concealed  the  real  difficul- 
ties of  the  expedition.  But  turning  back  was  out  of  the 
question.  Even  if  he  failed,  the  Union  commander  would 
attempt  to  scale  the  mountain  in  the  morning. 

These  thoughts  in  his  mind,  he  fell  into  a  light  slumber ; 
but  before  morning  he  was  roused  by  a  number  of  men  enter- 
ing his  apartment.  One  of  them  was  Caj)tain  Bent.  Ap- 
proaching his  commanding  officer,  he  said,  — 

"  Colonel,  this  old  fellow  has  just  come  into  camp,  and 
offers  to  guide  us  over  the  mountain.  He  says  he  knows 
every  rod  of  all  this  region,  and  can  lead  us  to  the  rebel  nest 
safely." 

Garfield  raised  himself  on  his  blanket,  and,  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  logs  that  were  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  looked  nar- 
rowly at  the  old  "native."     He  was  apparently  not  far  from 


THE     POUND      GAP     EXPEDITION.  319 

Seventy,  with  a  tall,  bent  form,  and  long  hair  and  beard,  which 
were  of  almost  snowy  whiteness.  He  wore  the  common 
homespun  of  the  district,  and  over  his  shoulder  carried,  slung 
by  a  stout  leather  thong,  a  brightly-burnished  squirrel  rifle. 
His  enormous  beard  and  huge  slouched  hat  more  than  half 
hid  his  face,  but  enough  of  it  was  exposed  to  show  a  tawny, 
smoke-begrimed  skin,  and  strongly-marked,  determined  fea- 
tures. Hastily  scanning  him  from  head  to  foot,  the  Union 
officer  said,  smiling,  — 

"You!  —  old  man,  do  you  think  you  can  climb  the  moun- 
tain ?  " 

"  I  hev  done  it,  gineral,  many  and  many  a  time,"  said  the 
"  native,"  in  a  voice  that  sounded  much  like  a  cracked 
kettle. 

"  I  know ;  but  in  winter,  —  the  slope  a  sheet  of  ice,  and 
three  feet  of  snow  on  the  summit  ?  " 

"  I  comed  down  it  not  ten  days  ago.  Whar  I  kin  come 
down,  ye  kin  go  up." 

"  I  should  think  so,  up  or  down.  Is  there  a  bridle-path  we 
can  follow  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  eight  miles  below.  But  ye'd  better  make  yer  own 
path.  Ye  must  come  onto  'em  unbeknown  and  sudden,  and 
to  do  that,  ye  must  foller  the  route  the  squirrels  travil." 

'•  What  route  is  that  ?  " 

"  The  one  over  the  rocks  and  along  the  edge  of  the  presur- 
piss.  They  has  pickets  on  every  other  path.  On  that  they 
look  for  nothin'  but  wild  critters." 

"  And  do  you  think  we  can  git  over  it  safely  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  ye's  men  of  narve,  as  means  to  do  what  they 
has  come  about." 


320  ON     T  H  1-:     B  O  li  D  E  K  . 

"  Well,"  said  Garfield.  "  Wliat  induces  an  old  man  like 
you  to  undertake  a  thing  so  hazardous  ?  " 

"  The  hope  to  rid  the  kentry  of  a  set  of  murderin*  thieves, 
as  is  carrjin'  terror  and  death  inter  every  pore  man's  home  in 
all  the  valley." 

"  And  what  reward  do  you  look  for  ?  " 

''  Nary  reward,  —  only  yer  word  that  I  shall  go  as  I  comed, 
with  no  one  to  let  or  hinder  me." 

At  this  the  Union  officer  gave  him  a  quick,  suspicious 
glance,  and  the  old  man  turned  his  face  aside,  and  slunk 
back  a  little  into  the  darkness.     Bent  said,  hastily,  — 

"I  know  him,  colonel.  You  can  stake  your  life  on  him. 
He'll  guide  us  safe  or  die  in  trying." 

"Ver}^  well,"  answered  Garfield;  ^- I'll  trust  -him.  Let 
him  be  here  early  in  the  morning." 

In  the  morning  the  snow  was  falling  so  thickly  that  objects 
only  a  few  rods  distant  were  totally  invisible;  but  at  nine 
o'clock  the  little  bod^-  of  cavalry  was  sent  up  the  road  to  en- 
gage the  attention  of  the  enemy,  and  draw  him  from  his 
intrench ments  ;  and  then  the  infantry  was  set  in  motion. 
In  a  long,  bristling,  serpent-like  column,  catching  at  every 
twig  and  shrub  and  fallen  log  that  lay  in  their  way,  they 
clambered  slowly  up  the  icy  mountain-side,  the  old  guide 
leading  the  way,  and  steadying  his  steps  by  the  long,  iron- 
shod  staff  in  use  among  mountaineers.  The  ridge  at  this 
point  rises  two  thousand  feet  above  the  valley,  and  half-way 
up  breaks  into  abrupt  precipices,  which  seem  to  defy  the  ap- 
proach of  any  foot  but  that  of  the  deer  or  chamois.  Thus  far 
the  guide  had  gone  on  with  tottering  steps,  stopping  often  for 
breath,  and  to  see  that  he  was   closely  followed ;  but  now 


TUE     POUND     (iAP     EXPEDITION.  321 

planting  liis  staff  firmly  in  the  icy  slope,  he  leaped  from  rock 
to  rock  as  agile  as  if  he  had  been  a  stripling.  His  altered 
gait  caught  the  quick  eye  of  the  Union  commander,  and,  sus- 
l^ecting  treachery,  he  hailed  him,  demanding  he  should  go  no 
further.  The  old  man  kept  on,  giving  no  heed  to  the  sum- 
mons, and  then  the  officer  cried,  — 

"  Halt !  or  I'll  put  a  bullet  through  you." 

This  brought  the  guide  to  a  stand,  and  clambering  up  to 
him,  Garfield  said,  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Tell  me  the  truth,  or  I  shall  hang  you 
to  the  first  tree." 

The  other  lifted  his  hat,  and  putting  aside  his  long  snowy 
hair,  showed  the  officer  the  gray  locks,  and  wide,  white  fore- 
head of  Jordan  ! 

"  I  suspected  as  much.  You  have  my  word.  Go  on ;  we 
will  follow,"  said  the  Union  commander. 

Without  a  word,. the  guide  again  led  the  way  through  the 
tangled  thickets,  over  the  ice-coated  rocks,  and  along  the 
steep  ridge  which  crowns  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  and 
then,  turning  sharply  to  the  left,  said  to  the  officer,  — 

"You  are  now  within  half  a  mile  of  the  rebel  position. 
Yonder  is  their  outside  picket ;  but  the  way  is  clear ;  — 
press  on  at  the  double-quick,  and  you  have  them." 

The  picket  had  now  descried  the  advancing  column,  and, 
firing  his  gun,  he  set  out  at  the  top  of  his  speed  for  the  rebel 
intrenchments.  A  dozen  bullets  made  shrill  music  about  his 
ears,  but  he  kept  on,  and  the  eager  blue-coats  followed.  When 
within  sight  of  the  rebel  camp,  a  line  was  thrown  down  along 
the  eastern  slope  of  the  mountain,  and,  pressing  rapidly  for- 
ward, was  formed  along  the  deep  ^orp^e  through  which  the 


322  ON     THE     BORDER. 

high-road  passes.  Up  to  this  time  the  rebels  had  been  skir- 
mishing with  tlie  cavalry  in  front  of  their  breastworks ;  but 
now  they  gathered  on  the  hill  directly  opposite  the  advanced 
position  of  the  Union  infantry. 

To  try  the  range,  Garfield  sent  a  volley  across  the  gorge, 
and,  as  the  smoke  cleared  away,  he  saw  the  unformed  rebel 
line  melt  like  mist  into  the  opposite  forest.  The  enemy's 
position  being  now  understood,  the  Fortieth  and  Forty-second 
Ohio  were  ordered  to  the  already  formed  left  wing,  and  then 
along  the  line  rang  the  words,  "  Press  forward ;  scale  the  hill 
and  carry  it  with  the  bayonet ! " 

A  ringing  shout  was  the  only  answer,  and  then  the  long 
column  swept  down  the  ridge,  across  the  ravine,  through  the 
rebel  camp,  and  up  the  opposite  mountain.  The  rebels  fell 
gradually  back  among  the  trees,  but  when  the  Union  bayonets 
clambered  the  hill,  they  broke  and  ran  in  the  wildest  confusion. 
The  Unionists  followed,  firing  as  they  ran,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments the  mountain  echoed  with  the  quick  reports  of  the  Ohio 
rifles;  but  pursuit  in  the  dense  forest  was  impossible,  and 
soon  the  recall  was  sounded. 

Only  one  was  killed,  and  seven  were  wounded;  but  this 
well-nigh  bloodless  victory  rid  Eastern  Kentucky  of  rebel 
rule  forever.  When  all  was  over,  and  the  tired  men  had 
gathered  in  the  comfortable  quarters  of  the  beaten  rebels, 
Garfield  said  to  Bent,  — 

"  Where  is  Jordan  ?  " 

"  Ten  miles  away,  I  reckon,  by  this  time.  He  took  to  the 
woods  before  we  charged  down  the  mountain." 


CHAPTER     XXYIII. 

THE  DEATH   OF  ''BEAUTY.'^ 

T  nightfall,  not  many  days  after  the  events  related 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  the  old  black  entered  the 
lonely  cabin  where  Eachel  and  the  Widow  Jordan 
were  looking  and  listening  for  his  coming.  As  the 
door  opened,  they  both  rose  from  before  the  fire,  and,  in  one 
breath,  exclaimed,  — 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?     Is  he  safe  ?  " 

"  Yas,  missy,  safe  and  comin',  but  not  yere.  De  brute 
beasts  am  a  huntin'  him  down.  He  fall  inter  de  trap,  but  de 
dumb  critter  she  seed  de  lion  in  de  way,  and  de  Lord  he  led 
him  safe  ag'in  to  de  mountains." 

"  And  can't  they  let  him  alone  ?  After  all  he  has  done, 
must  they  hunt  him  down  as  if  he  were  a  wild  animal  ?  " 
said  Rachel. 

"  No,  missy,  'taint  dem.  De  gineral  hisseft'  telled  'Zeke  to 
git  him  out  ob  Kaintucky,  whoile  he  got  pardon  and  reward 
for  him  from  de  big  'uns  down  tew  Washington.  No,  missy, 
'taint  dem  ;  it  am  the  debil's  own  chile  as  he  saved  from 
hangin'  a  millstone  round  his  neck,  and  gittin'  his  feet  fast  in 
de  mire  foreber." 

(323) 


324  ON     THE     B  O  R  D  i:  It  . 

"Not  Jackson!"  said  Rachel,  lior  face  turning  to  a 
deathly  pallor. 

"  Yes,  missy,  it  am  dat  debil ;  he  hab  put  on  do  anj^el's 
clo'es  'spressly  to  hab  Massa  John's  life  'for.e  he  kin  git  out  ob 
Kaintucky.  But  neber  you  far,  missy,  dey  as  am  wid  him 
are  more  dan  de}^  as  am  ag'in  him  ;  de  chariots  and  de  boss- 
men  am  round  bim,  and  dey'll  git  him  safe  wid  us  inter  de 
land  ob  Canaan.  So,  neber  you  far,  miss,y,  de  Lerd'll  luck 
arter  Massa  John  ;  jess  you  git  'Zeke  some  supper,  fur  he 
haint  had  a  morsel  sens6  de  lass  sundown." 

While  he  said  this,  the  old  black  removed  his  travel-soiled 
hat  and  outer  garment,  and,  seating  himself  in  the  leather- 
bottomed  chair,  stretched  his  huge  feet  and  mud-bespattered 
brogans  out  toward  the  backlog.  As  Rachel  went  about 
preparing  a  hasty  meal,  the  older  woman  said,  — 

"  And  whar  ar'  he  now,  'Zekiel  ?  Kin  he  go  with  us  to 
the  'Hio  ?  " 

"  Yas,  missus,  he  says  he  will,  if  de  Lord  am  a  willin' ; 
for  he  reckons-  he  hab  done  all  he  kin  for  Kaintucky.  'Zeke 
am  a  gwine  to  git  his  black  sheep  —  he  !  he  !  —  togedder,  and 
den  Massa  John'U  come  onto  us  down  de  riber,  and  see  us 
safe  cl'ar  ober  Jordan." 

"  Then  you  got  the  gineral's  permission  to  tuck  all  the 
folks  inter  the  'Hio  ?  " 

"  Yas,  missus,  all  de  fi-ee  folks,  —  all  as  ole  Massa  Jordan 
'lotted  on  to  go  dar,.wid  dar  chillen  and  gran'-chillen.  De 
ress,  de  gineral  say,  wont  hab  to  wait  long,  'case  slavery  am 
a'ready  more'n  half  dead  in  Kaintucky." 

'"'  Then  it  is  true,"  said  Rachel,  "  that  the  rebels  are  driven 
from  Pound  Gap,  and  far  l>ack  into  Virginia  ?  " 


THE     D  K  A  T  H     OF     "  B  E  A  U  T  Y ."  325 

"  Yas,  missy,  and  Massa  John  done  it.  He  jess  goed  inter 
dar  nest,  played  oft'  dat  lie  was  Parson  Bradslaw  as  was  safe 
in  de  jail  at  Piketon,  and  den  he  guided  de  Unions  to  de  rout 
ob  de  Philistines.  De  Yankee  gineral  he  say  dar  haint  sech 
anudder  brave  man  as  him  in  all  Kaintucky." 

Tlie  remainder  of  the  old  black's  prolix  narrative  may  be 
condensed  into  a  few  sentences  of  ordinary  English.  He  had 
arrived  at  the  Union  head-quarters  just  as  Garfield  —  who 
had  been  made  brigadier-general  for  his  important  services  in 
Eastern  Kentucky  —  was  on  the  eve  of  departing  to  join  the 
army  of  Buell,  then  on  its  march  to  Shiloh.  Obtaining  at 
once  the  permission  of  that  officer  for  the  removal  of  the 
negroes,  he  had  remained  in  camp  for  a  few  days  in  the  hope 
of  learning  the  hiding-place  of  Jordan,  who  he  desired  should 
accompany  his  flock  in  their  exodus  from  Kentucky.  Bent 
was  ignorant  of  Jordan's  exact  whereabouts,  but  at  pnce  sent 
scouts  to  all  his  former  haunts,  and  encouraged  the  old  man 
to   believe  that  a  vory  few  days'  search  would  discover  him. 

While  awaiting  the  return  of  the  scouts,  the  old  negro  was 
not  a  little  astonished  one  morning  by  encountering  Wedding- 
ton  at  the  head-quarters  of  Colonel  Cranor,  who  had  been 
placed  in  command  of  the  handful  of  troops  that  were  left 
behind  to  hold  the  Sandy  Valley.  The  ostensible  object  of 
Weddington's  visit  to  camp  was  the  taking  of  the  oath  of 
allegiance.  This  he  was  allowed  to  do  by  Colonel  Cranor, 
and  he  was  also  given  a  safe-conduct  by  that  officer  on  con- 
dition of  his  remaining  peaceably  on  his  own  plantation.  On 
meeting  Ezekiel,  Weddington  inquired  most  eagerly  after 
Jordan.  His  manner  excited  the  suspicion  of  the  old  man, — 
led  him  to  fear  tliat  his  visit  to  camp  and  taking  of  the  oath 

28 


326  ON     THE     BORDER. 

boded  no  good  to  Jordan,  who  he  knew  was  in  possession 
of  a  secret  whose  disclosure  would  bring  lasting  disgrace  on 
Weddington  and  his  family.  Might  he  not  be  seeking  his 
life  in  the  hope  that  the  secret  would  be  buried  with  him  ? 
This  the  old  man  feared,  and  he  communicated  his  fear  to 
Bent,  whose  search  for  Jordan  had  been  unsuccessful.  Bent 
advised  him  to  return  to  the  valley  of  the  Blaine,  seek  Jordan 
among  the  mountains,  and  warn  him  to  at  once  leave  Ken- 
tucky. 

Mounted  on  the  old  mule,  the  old  man  set  out  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  His  way  was  slow,  but  at  nightfall  he  had 
gone  one-half  the  distance,  and  was  approaching  a  friendly 
house,  where  he  purposed  to  pass  the  night,  when  he  was 
overtaken  by  a  single  horseman.  The  man  was  black,  and 
was  arrayed  in  a  tattered  suit  of  ''butternuts"  ;  but  the  horse 
was  a  spirited  animal,  and  evidently  belonged  to  the  better 
sort  of  four-footed  society.  In  the  dim  light  the  old  negro 
failed  to  distinguish  the  features  of  the  rider,  but  the  horse 
he  at  once  recognized  as  the  mare,  "  Beauty." 

"  Am  it  you,  Massa  John  ? "  he  cried,  as  the  other  made 
as  if  he  would  pass  him. 

"  Yes,  'Zekiel,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
know  me." 

"  'Zeke  know'd  de  nag,  Massa  John,  and  he's  afeard  she'll 
git  you  inter  trouble.  De  young  'Squar'  am  out,  Massa  John  ; 
he's  been  done  whitewashed  with  a  oath,  'Zeke  fears,  'spressly 
to  hunt  you  down,  and  hab  you'  life,  'fore  you  kin  git  out  ob 
Kaintucky." 

He  then  recounted  his  meeting  with  Weddington,  and  the 
suspicions  his  manner  had  excited. 


THE     DEATH     OF     "BEAUTY."  327 

Jordan  listened  in  silence  to  the  disclosures  of  the  negro, 
but  after  a  time  he  said,  — 

"  It  may  be  that  the  end  will  come  in  that  way ;  but,  how- 
ever it  comes,  I  am  ready.  You  got  the  safe-conduct  and  the 
permit  for  the  removal  of  the  negroes  ?  " 

"  Yas,  Massa  John." 

"  Well,  you  had  better  make  all  haste  to  get  them  ready 
for  the  journey.  I  will  go  on  with  you,  and  lay  out  in  the 
mountains  till  you  set  out,  then  will  see  you  safely  out  of 
Kentucky." 

At  the  suggestion  of  Jordan,  it  was  decided  to  travel  all 
night  in  order  to  reach  the  Blaine  by  early  morning,  and  they 
pressed  forward  as  rapidly  as  the  old  mule  could  be  induced 
to  travel.  They  had  gone  on  about  two  hours,  and  were 
approaching  a  dense  wood  that  lined  both  sides  of  the  high- 
way, when  Jordan's  mare  stopped  suddenly  in  the  road,  and 
gave  a  low  whinny.  The  old  black  drew  up  his  mule,  and 
asked  eagerly,  — 

"  What  am  it,  Massa  John  ?     What'm  de  matter  wid  de 
critter  ?  " 
•  '•  She  sees  something  that  I  can't  make  out  in  the  darkness. 
Be  quiet  and  listen." 

The  w^ords  were  scarcely  spoken,  when  a  rifle-shot  echoed 
from  the  edge  of  the  wood,  not  a  hundred  yards  distant,  and 
the  mare,  with  a  frantic  bound,  fell  suddenly  dead  in  the  high- 
way. A  moment  later  a  dozen  horsemen  sprang  into  the 
road,  and  moved  suddenly  down  upon  Jordan  and  the  old 
negro.  Quickly  disengaging  himself  from  the  fallen  animal, 
Jordan  cried  out,  — 


328  ON     T  H  K     B  O  R  D  K  K  . 

"To  the  woods,  "Zekiel,  —  back  with  the  mule  into  the 
timber.-' 

Saying  this,  he  leaped  a  narrow  stream  whirh  skirted  the 
road,  and  was  lost  in  the  dense  shadows  of  the  forest. 

"  Never  mind  the  old  black.  Dismount  every  one  of  you, 
and  into  the  wood  after  Jordan.  A  thousand  dollars  to  the 
man  that  kills  him,'*  said  the  voice  of  Weddington. 

The  troops  dismounted,  and  for  half  an  hour  their  shouts 
echoed  here  and  there  through  the  forest.  Then  one  by  one 
they  returned  to  the  highway,  and  from  the  babel  of  curses 
which  arose  on  the  night  the  old  negro  knew  that  the  pursuit 
had  been  unsuccessful.  Then  he  thought  of  his  own  safety, 
and,  dismounting,  led  the  old  mule  still  farther  into  the  forest. 
"  There  he  remained  over  night  and  till  the  last  guerilla  had 
disappeared  down  the  highway.  Then  he  slowly  resumed  his 
journey,  and,  without  further  incident,  reached  the  valley  of 
the  Blaine  on  the  following  day  at  nightfall.. 

"  The  Lord  is  witli  him ;  he  will  never  be  taken,"  said 
Rachel,  as  the  old  man  concluded  his  story. 

''  So  "Zeke  reckons,,  missy  ;  but  he'd  feel  ten  year  younger 
if  Massa  John  was  only  safe  out  ob  Kaintucky." 

"  And  Bradley  ?  "  asked  Eachel ;  "  did  you  see  him  at 
the  armj^  ?  " 

"  No,  missy,  he'd  gone,  and  nobody  kiiow'd  nothin'  about 
him.  He'd  fell  into  bad  ways,  and  done  suffin'  dey  shot  him 
up  for ;  but  he  broke  out  ob  de  guard-house,  and  goed  off,  — 
whar  no  one  know'd  for  sartin." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


"  THE  LAST   OF  EARTH.' 


HE  ensuing  fortnight  was  spent  by  the  negroes  in 
again  preparing  for  the  journey  into  Ohio.  At  its 
close  they  set  out  in  a  long  cavalcade,  led  by  the  old 
mule,  and  a  wagon  containing  'Zekiel,  Rachel,  and 
the  widow  Jordan.  On  the  following  morning  they  embarked 
with  their  household  goods  on  a  couple  of  flat-boats  moored  to 
the  dock  at  Paintville,  and  before  many  hours  were  moving 
rapidly  down  the  river.  They  had  not  proceeded  many  miles 
when  a  small  canoe  put  out  from  the  western  bank,  and  Jor- 
dan, disguised  as  before,  boarded  the  leading  flat-boat.  When 
the  old  negro's  somewhat  boisterous  greeting  was  over,  Jor- 
dan said  to  hira,  — 

''  'Zekiel,  send  one  or  two  of  the  men  back  at  once  to  Cap- 
tain Plumb,  at  Paintville.  Weddington  and  a  dozen  of  his 
gang  are  lying  in  wait  farther  down  the  river.  He  seeks  not 
only  my  life,  —  he  means  to  prevent  the  negroes  leaving 
Kentucky." 

"  But  he  can't  do  dat,  IVIassa  John  ;  we've  de  general's  per- 
mission." 

"  I  know ;  but  he  has  in  some  way  managed  to  get  a  coun- 
ter order  from   Colonel  Cranor.     The  court,  too,  has   issued 

28*  (329) 


330  ONTUEBOKDEli. 

another  \\Tit  for  their  detention.  If  the  general  were  here  it 
would  be  all  right,  but  he  is  gone,  and  our  only  course  is  to 
fight  our  way  down  the  river.  Once  across  the  Ohio,  you  can 
defy  all  the  courts  in  Kentucky." 

"  I  knows,  I  knows,  Massa  John ;  but  how  many  ob  dem 
amdar?" 

"  About  a  dozen,  I  am  told,  strong  men,  and  all  armed  with 
rifles  and  revolvers." 

"And  we  haint  more'n  six  sorry  shot-guns  among  us  !  " 

"  For  that  reason  you  must  send  at  once  to  Captain  Plumb 
for  assistance.  He  has  a  few  men  with  him,  and  —  I  know 
him  —  will  come  at  once  to  the  rescue.  Meanwhile,  we 
had  better  tie  up  the  boats,  and  land  in  some  position  that 
can  be  easily  defended." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  canoe  in  which  Jordan  had  come  was 
sent  back  to  Paintville,  and  not  long  afterwards,  the  boats 
were  halted  and  moored  to  the  shore,  at  a  point  where  a  steep 
bank  shuts  down  upon  the  river.  A  couple  of  deserted  shan- 
ties occupied  the  summit  of  the  bank,  and  in  these  the 
women  and  children  were  soon  collected.  Then  the  men 
felled  a  number  of  trees,  and,  forming  a  rude  breastwork, 
gathered  behind  it  to  await  the  coming  of  their  friends,  or 
their  enemies. 

They  had  not  to  wait  long.  An  hour  had  not  passed  before 
Jordan,  from  a  lookout  in  the  top  of  a  tree,  discovered  two 
row-boats,  filled  with  armed  men,  rapidly  ascending  the  river. 
They  were  Weddington  and  the  handful  that  was  left  of  his 
gang  of  guerillas  ! 

The  boats  bore   directly  for  the  point  where  the  negroes 


^'the   last   of   earth. '^  331 

had  lauded,  but,  as  they  came  within  speaking  distance,  were 
suddenly  brought  to  by  a  summons  from  Ezekiel,  — 

"  Halt !  "  he  cried,  "  not  another  rod,  or  ole  'Zeke'll  send 
some  ob  you  to  de  judgment." 

"Push  on.  Never  mind  the  old  fool,"  cried  Weddington, 
seizing  an  oar  and  driving  the  forward  boat  directly  under 
the  lee  of  one  of  the  flats.  A  shot  whistled  over  hjs  head, 
but,  rising  above  the  gunwale,  he  fired  at  a  man  who  stood  at 
the  barricade. 

The  man  was  Jordan.  A  low  sound  escaped  him,  he  stag- 
gered back  a  step  or  two,  and  fell  to  the  ground,  mortally 
wounded.  A  moment  of  frantic  confusion  followed  among 
the  negroes,  and  in  that  moment,  with  wild  shouts.  Wedding- 
ton  and  his  gang  sprang  ashore  and  climbed  half  way  up  the 
bank  towards  the  barricade.  The  shouts  recalled  'Zekiel  to 
the  danger,  and,  rising  to  his  full  height,  he  cried  out,  — 

"  Massa  Jack,  you  knows  me, — you  knows  I  tell  you  de 
truth.     Come  up  yere,  and  I'll  shoot  you,  shuah." 

"Weddington  sank  behind  a  fallen  log,  and,  firing  quickly, 
lodged  a  bullet  in  the  old  man's  shoulder.  He  fell,  badly 
wounded,  but  in  a  moment  was  on  his  feet  again,  with  his 
shot-gun  levelled  at  the  breast  of  Weddington.  The  latter 
was  now  at  the  barricade.  The  old  man  fired.  The  ball 
passed  through  the  thighs  of  Weddington,  but  he  kept  his 
feet,  and  raised  his  revolver.  At  this  moment  the  old  man, 
clubbing  his  gun,  felled  him  to  the  earth,  not  to  rise  again 
forever.  But  now  the  brave  old  man  could  do  no  more. 
Sick  and  faint  with  the  loss  of  blood,  he  fell  again  to  the 
ground,  crying  out,  — 


332  ON     THE     BORDER. 

"  Beat  "em  back,  my  chillen,  —  pay  'em  for  ]\Iassa  John, 
and  ole  'Zekiel." 

The  guerillas  pressed  on,  firing  indiscriminately  among  the 
women  and  children,  and  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  conflict 
ensued  between  them  and  the  negroes.  It  had  lasted  only  a 
few  moments,  wlien  loud  shouts  were  heard  coming  down  the 
river.  It  was  a  canoe  pulling  rapidly  towards  tlie  landing. 
In  it  were  Captain  Ralph  Plumb,  Captain  Josejjh  Ileaton, 
and  the  solitary  soldier  who  had  been  left  with  them  at 
Paintville.  With  loud  shouts  they  came  on,  and,  seeing 
them,  the  guerillas  fled  to  their  boats,  leaving  the  body 
of  their  leader  to  negro  burial. 

Arrived  at  the  barricade,  a  melancholy  scene  met  the  eyes 
of  the  Union  officers.  Lying  on  the  ground,  which  was  red 
with  the  blood  that  was  flowing  from  his  neck  and  shoulder, 
was  the  old  negro.  His  breath  was  short  and  labored,  but, 
in  broken  words,  he  gasped  out,  — 

"  Xeber  mind  me,  save  Massa  John,  if  you  kin,  gemmen." 

Jorda'n's  head  was  resting  on  his  mother's  lap,  and  beside 
him  Rachel  was  kneeling.  Her  hand  was  clasped  in  his,  and 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  hers  with  a  strange,  unearthly  gleam- 
ing. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  faltering  whisper,  "whoso 
turns  a  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  way,  saves  a  soul  from 
death,  and  hides  a  multitude  of  sins.     Remember,  Rachel .! '' 

Then  a  smile  passed  over  his  face,  his  head  sank  back, 
and,  tranquilly  and  slow,  his  soul  crossed  the  silent  river. 

And  now  a  few  words  will  tell  all  that  remains  to  be  told 
of  this    short   history.     The    next  day   they   buried   Jordan 


''THE     LAST     OF     K  A  R  T  H .  "  333 

among  the  mountains  lie  Imd  done  so  much  to  make  free  ; 
and,  a  few  days  following,  the  negroes,  with  their  wounded 
patriarch,  were  embarked  on  a  government  transport,  fur- 
nished by  Captain  Plumb,  and  conveyed  to  Portsmouth, 
Ohio;  thence  they  were  removed  to  Jackson  county,  and 
settled  in  comfortable  houses,  under  the  care  of  old  Ezekiel 
and  his  young  mistress.  There  Eachel,  in  quiet  work,  found 
the  peace  which  comes  at  last  to  all  souls,  who,  in  patient 
waiting,  look  for  the  rest  which  is  hereafter. 

So  two  years  w^ent  away,  and,  during  these,  Rachel  heard 
nothing  of  her  husband.  Then,  one  day,  taking  up  a  paper, 
she  noticed  that  Garfield,  returned  with  honor  from  the  war, 
had  visited  and  made  an  address  to  the  prisoners  at  the  Ohio 
Penitentiary^  Among  the  prisoners,  it  was  stated,  was  one 
who  had  been  his  companion  and  friend  in  boyhood.  The 
meeting  between  the  two  men  was  described,  and  some  com- 
ments were  made  on  the  strange  fortune  which  had  so 
brought  together  a  convict  and  a  major-general.  The  man, 
it  was  added,  though  a  confirmed  sot  and  notorious  horse- 
thief,  had  done  some  service  to  his  country  in  Kentnck3\ 
Something  witliin  told  Rachel  that  it  was  Brown,  her  hus- 
band. Instantly  she  set  out  to  see  the  governor,  and 
before  many  days,  with  a  pardon  in  her  hand,  was  at  tlie 
gateway  of  the  prison. 

In  the  years  that  have  followed,  she  has  learned  that  "  he 
who  turns  a  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  way,  saves  a  soul 
from  death,  and  hides  a  multitude  of  sins." 

THE     END. 


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RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

494 


I 


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